


My Life Had Stood A Loaded Gun

by HeartOfTheMirror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post Reichenbach, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, incubus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:25:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 50,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartOfTheMirror/pseuds/HeartOfTheMirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not many people can keep a secret from Sherlock Holmes, and especially not one that's a matter of life and death. Then again, John always was a little different. He's one of the Gifted.<br/> </p><p>*Tagged non-con to be on the safe side, there is no explicit description of non-consensual sex, as such.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the lovely and talented Moirai and LinnetTheMidnightBlogger for Beta'ing this for me.  
> It was inspired by this randomly generated prompt "The story starts when your protagonist accepts a new job.  
> Another character is a necromancer who has a collection of photos of your protagonist." for the random prompt challenge over on Johnlockchallenges on Tumblr.  
> The title is, of course, from the Emily Dickenson poem My Life Had Stood.  
> More to come soon :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS HAS BEEN UPDATED. Changes have been made, please be aware.

Wasn't it ironic that Sherlock always believed the limp was just psychosomatic? At first John hadn't corrected him because the truth was still too vulnerable and shameful to bring into the antiseptic fluorescence of Barts. It was once a home to him, if a wary one, and those were hard come by for people like him. 

John was Gifted. He was a Healer. Not exactly something you tell a near-stranger; or anyone really, if you could help it.

The old prejudices were still strong in some places. The middle east had its share of that- arguments about whether or not people like John were unnatural and blasphemous. John gritted the sand between his teeth more than once to keep himself separate from the things he overheard. The casual cruelties that stung like a swarm of horseflies at his pride and his sense of justice. But his hands were tied and his lips were sewn by the RAMC. 

For security reasons John was not allowed to reveal his Gift to anyone, even his fellow soldiers. Acting in any way that endangered that secrecy was a serious offense. The few soldiers in the know had jokingly called their official orders “Don't Ask, Don't Tell”. Everyone still knew which units the Gifted were in, what their Gifts were, and often even their names. John had still counted himself lucky- a few hundred years ago that information would have lead to a death sentence in jolly old England. Now it was just an inconvenience.

His unit had been like a second, less alcoholic, family and he'd been happy to use his Gift for them, even against regulations. They never used the vulgar slurs in his hearing- devil born, Beelzebub’s bastards, unnaturals, manipulators, a million other ridiculous slights. What happened when he was shot took all that away from him. It took so much more than he thought he had to lose.

He went into what the therapists called “Gift Suppression”. He couldn't heal himself. He couldn't heal anyone else. He hadn't practiced medicine like a Normal since his residency. Physical therapy did nothing but rub his nose in his sudden and unprecedented weakness. It was like someone had turned down the all the sounds, dulled all the colors, washed out the flavor every food. He didn't even know what to do with himself.

Then there was Sherlock. Everything changed and it was a whirlwind, it was dangerous and exciting and fun and John forgot to mourn altogether. It was something John had always meant to tell him about, his Gift. But there never seemed to be a good time to bring it up and he very much did not want to answer the questions that would come with it. Sherlock would figure it out eventually, John thought. Or in some distant future, during some odd case where he could contribute something and it became relevant. Maybe then.

But then Sherlock fell and all John could think was that if he weren't broken and Gift Suppressed then he would have seen the fall coming- seen the shifting of the chakras as the colors became sullied and depressed, and felt the little nagging at the back of his mind whenever Sherlock's energies frothed up in pain and frustration. He could have sat Sherlock down (with force if necessary) and sorted him out. He could have stopped it.

On his knees outside St. Bart's, where all the best parts of his life began, again he realized that what he thought was rock bottom was really just a comfortable ledge half way down. He felt his best friend's skin, pulseless, and tried desperately to call to that inner power that always leapt forth before Afghanistan. It was as unresponsive as the body before him. John decided then and there he didn't want his Gift back. Not if it wouldn't work for him when he needed it most. Not when it could have prevented this and didn't.

John Watson was less than he had ever been. Sounds were muted discordant things, colors flat and tarnished, and the thought of putting anything in his mouth but his gun made him gag. The limp was back, the cane with it, and his shoulder ached whenever it rained.

And then, just as suddenly, all that had been dim became stunningly, overwhelmingly bright.


	2. And Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life changes and no one is as safe as they think they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: this chapter has been updated, changes have been made, please be aware. Also, a detailed explaination of potentially triggering material in this chapter can now be found in the end note..  
> Also come concepts such as chi, chakras, terms for mythological creatures, etc. have been borrowed and altered to suit the needs of the story. They are in no way meant to accurately reflect their use or meaning in the real world and/or their original context.  
> Other than that I just hope you guys like it!  
> Let me know what you think :)

It might surprise some people to learn that, at heart, John was still a soldier. Moreover, he was a soldier who was intimately familiar with the feeling of being followed down dark London streets. Even after a year and a half without “The Game” to keep him on his toes it was still childishly simple to realize that the CCTV cameras had suddenly stopped turning to follow him. From the moment Sherlock fell up until three hours ago Mycroft's minions had rarely taken their eyes off him. John knew what it was; suicide watch. Normally he might have felt relieved for the privacy, but there was no time for that when John knew he was being followed.

He couldn't catch sight of anyone behind him, on the rooftops or even in the alleyways he passed. If it hadn’t been for the hair on the back of his neck standing on end and the cold thrill that ran down his spine, John might never have known he wasn't walking alone. Whoever his shadow was, they were certainly good at what they did.

John played up his limp and took several wrong turns down the darkest and filthiest twists of London, hoping to provoke a confrontation. It was extremely disconcerting when he didn't see a soul but some sleeping homeless he didn't recognize from the network. It was positively unnatural. Unsettling.

It must have been three in the morning when he turned back toward Baker street. He made it all the way to 221B, resting his hand on the doorknob and feeling foolish and altogether too safe all of a sudden. When had his shadow slipped away? Where? He couldn't consign himself to entering his home and leaving this little mystery alone, but neither could he think of how to track down an invisible opponent at this hour without involving the police. He had been standing there for a few seconds when he heard it.

It was a faint thud of something bulky meeting the ground quite unexpectedly. John crossed the street to the empty house that was obviously the source of the noise before he even had time to think. The front door, which had been left ajar, swung wide open with the gentlest nudge of his fingertips.

He crept inside, assessing automatically, like it was his job to secure a perimeter any more. It was impossible to feel like anything was okay. The building had windows like minimalist bullet wounds and there was no escape from the unnerving sound of rats scuttling through take out wrappers. Everything about the building creaked and groaned like it was asking to be put out of its misery. John sympathised. There was another sound, distinctly coming from the upstairs, of a human being scrabbling at the floor and the sounds of scuffle. It was indistinct but unsettling and he knew he would never sleep soundly again if he didn’t investigate.

John took the steps swiftly and quietly, his gun at the ready. He followed the sounds to a half open door. It was eerily quiet for a moment. John took a deep breath and kicked the door open only to choke on his own throat when he saw what was unmistakably one man pressed on top of another, kissing him as if his life depended on it, their fingers intertwined. Their figures were just barely illuminated by the parchment glow of the streetlights through the window.For one disemboweling moment he thought he had made a terrible mistake and nearly shot an innocent man.

But the man on top never looked up or paused as the one beneath him struggled weakly, their hands shifting more into the light and there was no doubt about it now; the white knuckled grip was restraining instead of passionate. He'd never run into an Incubus before but he knew the signs.

He tossed his gun aside and rushed at the assailant, tackling him off the other man's body and bringing his elbow down on the larger man's collar bone with a satisfying snap. With a wild growl his opponent surged upward, reaching for John's heart chakra. John twisted away, but the other man had him caught tenuously by the sleeve of his jacket.His other fist was incoming, but John was willing to take the blow to his jaw to protect his chi.

“John...” came the breathy little cry from across the room.

Cold rage claimed John and he sensed more than saw the attacker's lips straining for his as the large rough hand closed around the back of his neck and yanked him down. John balanced himself against the attacker's solar plexus on instinct, pushing away physically while at the same time reaching out and ripping with the warm sure force he hadn’t felt in years. The man shrieked, falling back against the dusty dirty floor as the ultimate pain overtook him. John scrambled away feeling sick and triumphant in equal measure.

He crawled over to his patient. Some part of him must have been expecting to see Sherlock Holmes there because he didn't even waste time with shock. Sherlock was so pale, the only part of him with any colour was the abused red of his lips. His dark curling hair looked thoroughly mussed and run through and if it weren't for his shaking John would say he'd been snogged to within an inch of his life- which in a way, he had. Sherlock's eyes were locked on him, pupils blown huge and caught up in some kind of syrupy madness. They were full of dark lust and twisted ecstasy, mingled down in there somewhere with humiliation and pain. John had seen something like it before, but only rarely, and on addicts just coming down from a high.

John had to force himself to look away from the strange sight to assess the rest of him for injuries. A muffled sobbing from behind him took over from the silence as John ran his eyes over Sherlock. He was dressed in a vagrant's clothes, and the lack of his customary tailored suit made him look like a painfully underfed child. He was shaking and painfully erect but didn't seem to be bleeding or have any obviously broken bones. As a Healer, John knew how unreliable such a simple visual assessment was. The worst trauma was never rarely visible to the naked eye.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, sounding so guttural, so desperate and altogether unlike himself. “John, John please, aides-moi s'il te plait.” Sherlock tried lifting a long pale hand but could only let it brush against John's thigh as it fell. John felt he might throw up. “S'il te plait. Touchez-moi. Soignez-moi. Aidez-moi s'il te plait.” 

It was this that decided it for John. With certainty he couldn't place, he knew his chi would not be enough to fix this. The mad light was draining out of Sherlock's eyes too quickly. There was a way to fix this. It was the ultimate violation of his gift as a Healer and he had sworn he would never do it again, but he had also sworn to protect Sherlock and only one of those things could come first.

He grabbed the incubus's wrist and dragged his bulk those vital few feet toward Sherlock, setting his jaw and trying to ignore the half slurred mumblings of “Baise-moi, baise-moi, donnez-moi une pipe, n'importe quois.” Sherlock was crying, aware on some level he was caught in the spell, but unable to stop himself.

John placed one hand on the crown of the incubus's head and the other on Sherlock's, doing his best to ignore how Sherlock moved into the point of contact desperately. John took a deep breath and was completely okay for the first time in a long time.

He reached into the mess of the incubus's screaming chaotic energy and pulled, letting it flow from his right hand up his detouring around his heart chakra, through his stomach, and then down his left arm, letting it flow back into Sherlock. Sherlock gasped as heat and life spread through him while his would-be killer squirmed in a weak attempt to get away. It reminded John of the way Sherlock had struggled weakly under the larger man and he redoubled his efforts, pulling more viciously from the incubus and giving more freely to Sherlock. He didn't stop until he felt the body under his right hand seize and go stiff.

John rested his hands on his knees for a second, taking a few deep breaths and readjusting to the feeling of being in his own skin again. Killing with a gun hardly phased him but this was something so much more intimate, so much more- so much. He shoved those thoughts aside, resigned himself to freak out later, then he lifted the limp and pliable form of his best friend in his arms like a newborn. Sherlock mewled, more forgone than ever before, and pushed his hips against the friction of John's side.

“Stop it,” John muttered, though he knew Sherlock couldn't help it and probably wouldn't be able to for a day or two at least. Infusions like the one he had just done were a last resort and they had consequences. More so when they were as rushed and imprecise as field surgery. Even more again when one of the participants was Gifted. John thought longingly of being shot at and running for his life.

“Ta bouche John. S'il te plait.” Sherlock brushed his lips along John's jaw. John gritted his teeth and carried his friend, loose like a wet noodle, down the stairs, across the street, through two doors and up a different set of stairs to lay him safely on the couch at 221B. The whole time he had to try to hold his breath and ignore the pungent aroma of sewage and sweat coming off Sherlock. It was only once he'd put Sherlock down that John felt his age again.

He pulled Sherlock's ratty sneakers and putrid socks off and threw them aside. Then he did the double dance of dodging kisses while trying to gently peel the filthy winter coat off his friend. He threw that on top of the rest and covered the doped up detective with a blue crochet afghan that had been passed down to him from his grandmother.

John shuffled into the kitchen, putting the kettle on to boil and digging out a rubbish bag from under the sink. A long moan sounded from the living room and John sighed, suddenly exhausted. Rustling came from under the blanket and followed by another obvious attention-begging moan. John honestly debated ignoring him and going to bed, but Sherlock really couldn't afford to expend any excess energy right now. Like a child with chickenpox he would just keep scratching at an itch that could only be fixed by leaving it alone. In the end his compassion won out and he grabbed the sleeping pills from the bathroom and took Sherlock a glass of water to wash them down with. Upon his reappearance in the living room he was immediately greeted with the sight of that precious not-cracked-on-the-pavement-like-an-egg head thrown back, mouth open as he wanked desperately beneath the blanket.

“John, je veux te baiser. Le savais-tu?”

“Whatever you're asking the answer is probably no. But if you take the nice pill I'll kiss you, okay?” A kiss on the cheek was a kiss none the less. John felt that considering all he'd been through that day it was pretty impressive that he was still capable of that level of trickery.

“Tu vas embrasser ma bite?”

“Sure thing.” John said placating. He helped his friend sit up, fed him the pill and held the glass while he swallowed the water. Then before John could even set the glass down Sherlock darted out to peck John on the lips and slumped against him.

“Bon nuit, John.” Ten minutes of mildly inappropriate cuddling later, he was out like a light. John took a moment to reflect on the policy some countries still held of killing Incubusi immediately upon identification of their Gift. He reconsidered his position on that. John suddenly realised that there was a dead man across the street, and a man who was supposed to be dead about to drool on his shoulder, with nothing between his half hard cock and John but his granny's old afghan and John’s worn jeans. Well, he had said that he'd missed the excitement and absurdity of it, after all. He tried to make Sherlock as comfortable as he could on the couch while carefully avoiding his crotch and all other potentially erogenous zones. 

And then he sent Mycroft a grossly misspelled text and collapsed face first into his bed without changing. Neither man woke for the next fourteen hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potentially triggering material: Sherlock is assaulted by an Incubus who uses his power to attempt to consume all of Sherlock's life energy, thereby killing him. John kills the Incubus using his gift but Sherlock is left in an unnaturally aroused, basically drugged, state wherein he is not responsible for his actions and can not consent. John wards off his advances and Sherlock sleeps.


	3. Fake It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated and edited 4/8/15, changes have been made so please take notice of that moving forward.  
> All beta'ing done by the lovely LinnetTheMidnightBlogger

When John next woke he felt like he'd run a triathlon and then celebrated by drinking a pub. He had a lovely face to face meeting with the toilet bowl followed by some vigorous tooth brushing action. He half crawled down the stairs clutching at his head and hoping against hope that Sherlock was still consumed by the restorative power of sleep. He was not.

Sherlock's eyes were cracked open as he lay in a tangle on the couch with the afghan. The blue of the blanket only brought out the color in Sherlock's eyes. He was sleep mussed and surprisingly quiet.

“Dear God you need a shower,” John said by way of greeting. Sherlock grunted, tilting his chin just so to let John know he was offended. It was only when John shuffled into the kitchen that he realised that the flat had been invaded in the night. The refrigerator and cupboards were fully stocked. A cursory inspection revealed many of his and Sherlock's favorites and a full spectrum of basic supplies in much nicer brands than John usually bothered with.

“When did your brother stop by?” John called as he put on the kettle. Sherlock grunted, annoyed. John took that to mean he didn't know as he had slept through the visit as well. 

John made Sherlock a colourful fruit salad, carefully selecting the fruits that he felt would be most restorative and then drizzling them with honey so he could actually make the mad detective eat it. He made his own bowl and then carried them both out to the living room and made a second trip for the tea. Sherlock didn't move to reach for his. John heaved a put upon sigh, skewered a bit of cantaloupe, and shoved it at Sherlock's mouth. Startled, he took it and then glanced at John with narrowed eyes as he chewed and swallowed.

“You aren't acting awkward or attempting to avoid me,” Sherlock observed. By this time John had sat himself in his customary chair with his--well to be honest, it was more like dinner than a breakfast at this point.

“Well deduced,” John said around a strawberry.

“You're not angry or offended.”

“Right now I'm just happy to be breathing and in possession of paracetamol.”

“I- John, I must apologize. The way I acted, I-. The things I said-”

“Sherlock, for Christ’s sake, you were under the influence of an Incubus. You had no control over it and you don't have to apologize for that any more than you would have to apologize for falling asleep if someone chloroformed you. And before you start, I don't speak French. I have no idea what you said and even if I did it wouldn't matter.”

“Because you're, apparently, Gifted.” Sherlock looked like he needed verbal confirmation on this. John did his best not to laugh because the confusion and the uncharacteristic mental lassitude were the after-effect of a viscous attempt on his formerly dead best friend's life and therefore could not be funny.

“Eat your salad,” John said instead. “The sooner we get you running like normal the better.”

Sherlock stole a piece of honey covered melon with his fingers. 

“How did I miss this?”

A second later, 

“You were Gift Suppressed, weren't you?” Sherlock bit ravenously into a strawberry as he made the connection between appeasing his appetite and speeding up his mental reboot. “Healers can't be hurt long term. The strong ones never even scar properly, which is annoying. 

The limp, the wound to your shoulder, they were they were symptoms of your Gift Suppression. That's why you were invalided- you lost your Gift so they didn't have use for you any more. They'd never let a Healer go otherwise. You are a Healer aren't you? No, no, of course you are. Stupid. God I hate this!” Sherlock bit into another strawberry with spiteful relish as if trying to force his chi to recuperate more quickly. He desperately needed a shower and a wank and he couldn't even begin to put into words how much he didn't want to get up or move or even really be awake. It was not a totally novel sensation but it reminded him more of his junkie days than he cared to admit.

He realised the strawberry had been in his mouth for over a minute and he made himself swallow. John was watching him out of the corner of his eye. John looked so very tired. Maybe he would fall asleep in his chair and Sherlock wouldn't need to get up yet. Maybe they would nap together on the living room furniture like a pair of cats. Maybe Sherlock would wake up without feeling an iron grip on his wrists, holding him down sucking the breath out of his mouth. Maybe he wouldn't wake up wanting...

His head was all muddled with strange thoughts. It made his bones cold and his temples throb because they weren't his thoughts, not really. They were just psychic residue left over from his... contact with Moran. Nothing more. But everything was so slow and fuzzy and dull and he felt he could sleep for days if only he didn't have to be the Great Detective for John. He couldn’t let John see the extent of the damage. It took an enormous force of will to push past it. To drag himself back to the living room and the sunlight that warmed his hair and the sweet taste of strawberries still lingering.

“You must have been Suppressed the whole time I knew you so you didn't get it back until-” Sherlock had finished half of his salad and John had not taken more than two bites. “I jumped?”

“No. I couldn't find your pulse. There's nothing a Healer can do for the dead. My gift was gone until last night.” There was a weight to the words. Sherlock was silent a moment before the weight of his own discovery pressed the words forth.

“Only a strong Healer could do a transference and one on that scale would be particularly difficult, especially considering the circumstances. The risks involved were incalculable. Most Healers would never attempt such a thing. You could have died, John. By all rights Mycroft should have been cleaning up three dead bodies. Statistically it's extremely improbable that we both lived through it without any permanent damage. Amazing.” Sherlock was looking at John as if he'd never seen him before. For a split second John thought he knew what Sherlock felt the first time he'd taken John to a crime scene.

“You're welcome. So when did you plan on telling me you were alive, then?” John accompanied this question with the double raised eyebrow maneuver his mother had always used to wring confessions out of him in his youth.

“As soon as Moran was dead.”

“Moran was the incubus?” John asked.

“Yes. Moriarty's second in command.” Sherlock looked down at the bowl in surprise as he realised he had emptied it. When had that happened? How long had he been sitting here?

“He would have a second command like that,” John said venomously.

“Moran was the last one. Moriarty's network has been destroyed, John. Everyone's safe now.”

“I'll make you some toast and you can tell me all about it,” John offered kindly.

“Must I?” Sherlock sounded so weary, so drained that John's instincts as a Healer were screaming at him to relent. But John was more than his instincts.

“Yes.”

“There were three assassins. One for you, one for Mrs. Hudson and one for Lestrade. If I didn't jump they would pull the trigger. I saw it coming, all the little clues, the breadcrumbs he left me like I was some infant in need of guidance. Moriarty made a crucial mistake however; he underestimated the number of snipers he'd need. With his eyes on you three I was able to turn to other, less frequently used resources- namely Mycroft and Molly.”

“Molly?” John said harshly, sitting up in his chair, reaching out with his Gift automatically even though he already knew of course. Sherlock was alive, properly alive and he didn’t need to flex the sore muscle ache of his Gift or squint at the vague colors of Sherlock’s mixed up aura to know that. The idea hadn't even crossed his mind that he might not be until Sherlock had mentioned Molly's name.

Judging by Sherlock's shocked and indignant expression he hadn't been expecting John to jump to that conclusion either.

“I would appreciate it if you never insinuated anything of that kind again John. I may do many things that the average person might find peculiar, but you should know I would never do anything like _that_. And just because Molly is a Necromancer doesn't mean she would-”

“I know, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. It's been a long day for the both of us. But people will ask, Sherlock. A man comes back from the dead and certain assumptions will be made.”  
“Just look at me John. Molly couldn't have Raised me, any idiot would know in a minute.”

“No, _you_ would know in a minute. Everyone can spot a mindless Necromancer puppet if it’s half rotted, but the other kind… the ones that are still alive? Not so much. People like me _might_ if they were experienced, but the average human being would have no clue. It's not obvious to them, Sherlock.”

“It should be.”

“Well, welcome to life. It has a lot of 'should be's. How did you survive, you giant prat? And you had better not leave anything out because make no mistake, as soon as you're well enough you and I are going to revisit the 'punch me in the face' conversation.”

“Perhaps I'll stay ill then,” Sherlock mused absently.

“Don't even think about it,” John's tone was not playful as Sherlock had expected. “Tell me what happened. I won’t ask again.” Sherlock swallowed and it hurt his throat.

Sherlock's mind was blank and his mouth was dry. He should have something to say about that but he was running out of steam. He just wanted to lay back down and close his eyes but he just smiled a little at his friend and took another drink of hot chocolate. It was time to be Sherlock Holmes again.


	4. I'm Not Calling You a Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs a shower. John is helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.  
> Eternal thanks to the brilliant Moirai for her support and suggestions <3  
> Chapter title is from I'm Not Calling You a Liar by Florence and the Machine.

“Mycroft couldn't crack Moriarty, but he knew that whatever secrets Moriarty was keeping were huge--perhaps even beyond the scope of national security. Moriarty insinuated that if he wasn't set free by a certain date then the information would be automatically released to his second in command, Moran. Moran was to use the intelligence to avenge his employer's death by destroying London and overthrowing the government.”

“You're not serious,” John breathed, disbelieving.

“Unfortunately I am. Bold words for a man with no leverage, but whispers of the 'universal key' had reached precisely the right ears already. Mycroft came to me. We formulated the plan weeks in advance but the jump was just a fail-safe. It was never supposed to happen, John. I was supposed to be dragged through the mud, outwit Moriarty and get the real key code, if such a thing existed. At the time it all seemed possible. Probable even. I got caught up in the game, I didn't _think_. 

“I… I want you to know that I didn’t approve of Mycroft’s plan. I never would have agreed if I thought I’d actually have to go through with it. There was a Mind Walker, John, a powerful one. She helped you see what you expected, altered your sense of time so you wouldn’t question how long it all took to set up. 

“You were the most important piece, John. You had to accept it because even Moran knew that you believed in Sherlock Holmes more than anyone. He knew that I… I believed in John Watson as well.” Sherlock cleared his throat, staring at the ceiling and steepling his fingers as if that could make anything he was saying more clinical and detached. 

“If there was one thing I would detest to do it was leaving you. Letting you grieve me and move on from our partnership. So that’s exactly what I had to do. You must understand, everything I did John, it was all to keep you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade safe.” Sherlock looked at him, pleading. John just gestured for him to carry on, tight-lipped and unwilling to speak until he had heard every damning word of this explanation.

“Molly helped me with the formalities after that. She smuggled me out of the building and I left London that night. Months, John, I spent months trekking across Europe, Asia, South America, taking down Moran's operatives one by one. The web was more extensive than I had ever imagined. It was, frankly, exhausting. It would have taken me years if one of Moran's generals hadn't discovered heroin and gotten sloppy with his record keeping. Computers are so easily hacked when one uses the name of one's dead wife as the password. Foolish.”

“Sentiment,” John said sadly.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “But unfortunately he wasn't the only one to get careless, John. I had been exiled from my life and I wanted it back. I was tired, I was so tired I...”  
“Don't tell me you relapsed,” John said, fearing the worst. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch Sherlock in the face or wrap him in the warmest blanket they had. “How long have you been clean?”

“That's not the point!” Sherlock bit out. “Moran caught on to the fact that I was still alive. He tracked me down, nearly caught me in Germany--a story for another time. He left me a message threatening to kill you if I so much as went near Britain. But I couldn't end him without returning to London because he refused to leave. So you see, it was a stalemate. I found a way to smuggle myself back into the country with a shipment of cars- tedious and uncomfortable in the extreme. Moran became aware that I was in the country at the worst possible moment. He vowed to personally... he wanted to be the one to end your life. To teach me a lesson,” Sherlock’s voice wobbled and he cleared his throat.

“I followed you all over London for hours. I couldn't risk contacting Mycroft and drawing Moran's attention. By the time I worked out his endgame it was nearly too late. He was waiting in that abandoned house for me--to shoot you in front of me. I intended to hide out in that building to observe Baker Street through the night and make sure you were truly safe. He was there. There was a fight, I was losing and the rest you know.” Sherlock's voice trailed off and his eyes slid closed. He was clearly tapped out. Quick doses of sugar could only get him so far.

“Yes,” said John just to fill the silence. "The problem is, Sherlock, that what you just told me was load of bollocks." Sherlock stilled completely, not even daring to draw breath. He didn’t have to look at John to know that this situation had become very fragile. "You honestly don't care about any of that? Brazil, shipping containers, Moriarty’s schemes, you think that’s what I care about? You let them violate my-" John choked off the rest of the words, flexing his left hand in a failed effort to stop the tremors. 

“You let them in my fucking head. You made me think you were dead. You ran off into God knows what kind of danger without me, blithely mention you relapsed in Brazil, and think, what, that you can stroll back in and have everything be aces?”

Sherlock's voice was quiet when he spoke, "I never wanted this. I just knew I had to keep you away from Moran and that I couldn’t let Moran go free. I did what I did because it was right. It was the right choice John, Mind Walker and all, because it kept you safe and it stopped him."

“Well that makes it all okay then!” John bellowed, throwing his hands in the air. “Because obviously you were keeping yourself safe as houses and it’s not like Moran didn’t get within a gnat’s shit of killing me anyway, so good on you mate. Good job there.” Sherlock shrunk back into the couch, clutching the afghan around him as if it could form an actual barrier between him and this conversation.

Sherlock was clearly tapped out. Quick doses of sugar could only get him so far and John wasn’t faring much better. John took a deep breath, pushing his anger and the rest of his uncomfortable jumble of emotions aside. This wasn’t helping either one of them and as the more stable and responsible of them it was his job to see to their immediate needs first.

“Alright then,” John said to fill the silence. “We’ll talk about this later.” He ran his eyes over Sherlock’s wilted body on the sofa. “Look, why don't you go shower while I put some fresh sheets on your bed. Get you feeling back like your old self.” John smiled tightly, trying to diffuse some of the tension from his outburst.

“No.”

“Sherlock,” John said, with mild reproach and a touch of desperation.

“No John. I can't.”

“Can't what?”

“I can't get up!” Sherlock snapped, his voice cracking at the end. He pouted, decidedly not looking at John. John knew how much that admission must have cost a man as prideful and independent as his (former?) flatmate. It was a testament to John's own condition that such a thing needed to be said aloud at all. It didn't take a doctor to see that Sherlock was a burnt out battery at present. John let out a heavy breath and bent one knee on the edge of the sofa cushion. He drew two armfuls of sulky consulting detective into his arms and lifted.

“Oh really John, this is ridiculous.” Sherlock fidgeted like a weak kitten about to be thrown in the bath. John grunted and readjusted his grip without stopping. Sherlock slumped even more against his frame as he resigned himself to the reality that there was no escaping this. There were fine tremors in John's arms by the time he set his friend down on the toilet seat.

He turned away from the pouty detective to turn on the shower, testing the water until it was luke-warm.

“Can you manage on your own?” Sherlock's sulky silence was his only answer. “It's okay,” John said gently. He pulled at the hem of Sherlock's extra large Bon Jovi shirt, easing it over the greasy nest of curls and down the limp arms. He binned it. The line of Sherlock's shoulders was tense, like an artist's rendition of pale silk stretched over a jangle of finely sharpened knives. There were new scars, pale pink and glossy white. John knew better than to ask. He covered the deepest one with his palm.

“Even French kings had servants bathe them. I thought it would appeal to your sense of luxury.”

“You aren't my servant.”

“No. I'm your friend and your doctor and I'm going to take care of you.” This seemed to relax Sherlock somewhat. John rolled up his sleeves. He popped the button on Sherlock's ragged jeans, hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled them and his boxers down in one clean movement. Sherlock tensed again--more scars, more exposure, less control. John binned them both and waited.

It wasn't until Sherlock let out a long breath that John lifted him gently. He tried to set him down in the tub but Sherlock had miles of limbs with sharp elbows and knees. Folded up like moody razor blade origami. For once Sherlock's body was just as uncooperative with him as he was with John. He didn't seem to be enjoying the experience. “Jesus Christ, do you need to have quite so many limbs?” John grunted after an entirely accidental elbow to the diaphragm.

“I do find them useful, yes.”

John was soaked, water dripping in his eyes, over his lips, down the back of his neck. Annoying. He ducked out of the spray and groped around for a clean flannel. For a second he felt absurdly like apologising because the only soap he had was the cheap stuff. Sherlock could hardly turn his nose up at it, given the state he was in, even if it wasn't imported from France like the brand he usually preferred. John took Sherlock's hand- which seemed the safest part of him- and began with gentle circles to spread the lather and cleanse the worst of the grime. He'd go back and scrub more thoroughly once Sherlock fully relaxed into John's care.

Sherlock huffed at this delicate treatment but shifted to lean his head against the wall of the shower, relaxing the angle of his spine another fraction. John worked his way up Sherlock's arm with easy casual strokes. He didn't think Sherlock would respond over-well to a more clinical approach. Though the pig-headed git probably wouldn't admit, he was in need of comfort just as much as physical care giving.

He massaged the flannel over Sherlock's shoulder blades, feeling his back loosen under his touch, he traced the long curve of his spine down to the base just above the sacrum and then back up until the cloth brushed the stray curls at the base of his skull. Sherlock shivered. John turned up the water a notch and the spray warmed. Sherlock sighed, tipping his head forward to let the spray soak over the crown of his head and trickle down the back of his neck, washing away the last of the soap.

He lifted his other hand just enough for an invitation, and John took it, pulling it gently toward him and working the sudsy cloth between those long fingers, along his palm, over his wrist stopping to feel the delicate skin there and the pulse point it covered. The energy still ebbed and flowed through Sherlock's body, dim for now but not gone, not seriously damaged. Just healing.

John took a deep shuddering breath and marshaled his focus with all the strict determination his time in the army had taught him. No matter what the gesture meant to a Healer, Sherlock wasn't actually inviting John to muck about with his Chi. John was too drained to really help even if Sherlock had actually wanted him to, which was laughably unlikely after a trauma like the one he'd just had.

John's hands had carried on while his mind was occupied, making broad swipes across Sherlock's smooth chest. He wrung out the cloth, now stained from Sherlock's grime, and lathered up more soap. Sherlock had tipped his head against the shower wall and had relinquished himself totally to John's ministrations, which was incredibly soothing for the both of them.

Sherlock's skin was even paler than John remembered, soft and smooth. He spent so much time thinking of Sherlock as impervious, as thick-skinned and cold, that he forgot just how sensitive his body could be. It flushed pink, just a little raw, as the brown tint of grime ran down the drain.

John stopped, leaning back on his toes, now that he'd run out of torso. It wasn't that John was stalling because he now had to work around Sherlock's, urgent, intimidating erection. Fucking Incubui. Sherlock tensed again. He shifted his body with great effort, covering himself as much as he could manage. John had never felt so much like Sisyphus. Every time he rolled the proverbial bolder up the hill, getting Sherlock to relax and entrust himself to John’s care unselfconsciously, it came rolling back down. Sherlock froze up, bruised dignity and tense muscles making the simple task torture instead of pampering. John sighed and continued on with his work. He was a bit more perfunctory around the thighs, slowing again to sweep over the swell of his calves. Sherlock jerked his leg at the first touch to his toes.

John looked at Sherlock's surprised face and grinned.

“You're ticklish.”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. Too quickly. John kept his eyes on Sherlock as he slid the cloth between his toes. “Don't even fucking think-” Sherlock's whole body spasmed as a hysterical giggle was forced out of him--more like a bark than anything--as John wiggled his fingers. Water went everywhere as Sherlock's legs kicked, his arms reaching out weakly for John.

John relented, smiling at Sherlock's pout and his surprisingly elegant sprawl as he had somehow ended up with his back resting against the bottom of the shower, one leg propped up against the wall and the other, in John's hands, bent over the edge of the tub. The spread of his legs gave an artistic view that John no problem ignoring. Sherlock was swallowing down his smile in a futile attempt to scowl at John.

“Come on then,” John said, reaching for his cheap shampoo that was supposed to smell like a sea breeze, but mostly just smelled like the early stages of wet bathing suit. John, as a reasonably self aware straight man, couldn't deny that he was just a little excited to wash Sherlock's hair. Once he'd scrubbed away the gunk--to a litany of complaints from Sherlock, but really, he was being as gentle as he could around all the snarls--and began to condition the springy, inky curls, it was like heaven under his fingers.

Sherlock hummed in agreement with the unspoken sentiment as John's ministrations slowed down and took back some of their earlier pampering effect. He tipped his head back, exposing the length of his neck, letting the back of his skull rest gently in John's palm, a universal gesture of trust. The moment was so lovely it made John want to kiss someone--or make an impossible shot and kill someone for Sherlock. On his nicer nights, John still had dreams about the look in Sherlock's eyes when he had realised what John had done that first night with the cabbie.

In comparison, lifting a slippery-when-wet 20 miles and 167 pounds of Sherlock Holmes out of the tub, into a towel and across the flat to his room shouldn't have been an overly taxing task. Shouldn't have been. The squirming and complaining didn't help. Neither did the elbow to his cheek, his ribs, or the not-entirely-accidental bite to the outer edge of his hand.


	5. Hate Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing is never exactly easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Seether's "Fake It"  
> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

John deposited Sherlock on the bed, wrapping the towel tightly around his shoulders to ward off the chill he could see creeping up the detective's spine.

He opened Sherlock's drawers, the entire room having remained an untouched shrine to John's grief, and carefully lifted the expensive folds of fabric within, looking for the soft grey pajamas Sherlock used to love. He slipped the pair out and laid them next to Sherlock, taking a moment to consider how best to do this without bruising his sensitive friend's dignity or pride.

“Leave,” Sherlock said.

“Shut up.” John said. He shook out the pajama bottoms and knelt by Sherlock's feet to slide them up his legs.

“I'm neither a child nor an invalid John. I don't need your _help_.” John hummed in agreement and then wound an arm around Sherlock's torso, lifting him up enough that he could use his other hand to pull the waistband over his hips. He did his best to adjust it so it sat comfortably over Sherlock's persistent erection without getting too close to it.

“This is humiliating,” Sherlock moaned, letting his head fall on John's shoulder, his wet hair chilling John as it soaked through his shirt.

“No it's not. It's perfectly natural. Your body's been thrown for a huge loop and it's doing whatever it can to cope. Your energies will even themselves out, just give it two weeks. You're human Sherlock. You need to heal.”

“No,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. “I need control.” John rubbed his palm along his damp spine beneath the towel feeling a keen sense of sadness for his friend and wishing there was more he could do.

“Icubi and Sucubi are Gifted with the innate ability to manipulate the groin chakra, Swadisthana. It governs sex, sexuality, reproduction, relationships, violence, addictions, basic emotional needs, creativity, joy and enthusiasm,” John said, letting his hand rest on Sherlock's hip, his thumb gently rubbing circles.

“You sound like one of those terrible websites: 'So Your Child is Gifted, What Now?'” Sherlock mocked in a slightly wavering version of his ‘normal-people’ voice.

“Hush, you,” John said fondly. “The point I'm trying to make is, you can't treat this as if it's not real. You need to recover. Just because you can't see the damage physically doesn't mean it isn't there. If he'd broken your leg or stabbed you in the kidney you wouldn't be up and about running marathons, would you?” There was a worrisome silence. “You're not well right now but you will be, and soon. So just stop fighting me for once in your life Sherlock, and let me take care of you. It isn't embarrassing to need medical attention. It's a miracle that you survived.” Sherlock grunted against his shoulder and John figured that was good enough to be getting on with for now.

….

When John walked back into the living room, Mycroft Holmes was sitting in John's chair with his legs crossed, looking at John as though he were a truant boy who had personally inconvenienced the headmaster.

“I was wondering when you'd show up,” John sighed, letting his shoulders drop and walking past his guest into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Tea?” sure in the knowledge that he didn't give a damn about the sour face Mycroft was sure to be making now that he was unobserved.

Mycroft waited until John came back and sat in Sherlock's chair more patiently than John would have assumed a Holmes was capable of.

“If I thought my brother would have grown quite so... _attached_ to you I never would have allowed you to leave that parking garage.”

“Ta, Mycroft. What's next? You going to threaten to have someone take me out back behind the skip and shoot me if I ever so much as look at your brother's Chi again?”

“How gauche. Let me try another track and let's see if you can keep up, hmm? I thought you would be a science experiment for him. You and your _gift_ , or lack there of, would have certainly entertained him for a moment and then he would have moved on. You were supposed to turn into background noise.

“At the most I had hoped your easy won loyalty and your unfortunate knack for... bravery and thrill seeking which borders on the mentally ill, would be of benefit to my brother. We all know he needs to be protected from himself. But no, you became something more. He trusts you now. He sees you as another human being, an equal, when we both know that isn't true.”

John clenched his jaw and said nothing.

“The Gifted can never truly be equal, you must know that John. Society will never accept your kind the way you hope they will. Should people find out about your affliction.... well you can kiss your readership goodbye. Your access to cases. Your career.” John swallowed thickly, did his best to breathe before he reacted. He’d heard it all before, from friends and family members even. But never like this, so rote as if he was reading off a receipt, with only a delicate hint of smug disgust, as though the items listed were priced far higher than what they warranted but he could afford to pay regardless. 

He felt like a beast at auction who had been found wanting by the auctioneer. John tightened his fist, straining not to let it fly- he owed Mycroft, and the thought crawled down it’s spine with a hundred centipede legs of humiliation and rage.

“I'm telling you all this so you understand that when I say I will destroy you if you ever hurt him or use your Gift to manipulate him or molest him in anyway, that I'm not talking about anything so kind or simple as death nor so fulfilling and useful as being re-enlisted against your will.

“Your only job now is to take care of him. Ensure his safety, his happiness--if he can be said to achieve such a state--because if he so much as develops a persistent cough I will turn the whole of society against you and take from you every single thing you care about,starting with Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft stood, brushing imagined lint from the sleeves of his suit jacket as if the very act of conversing with John, sitting in the man’s chair, had sullied him in some visible way. 

“Good day John,” the elder Holmes said without bothering to look at his host.

Mycroft left as the kettle whistled but it was only when he was halfway to the door that John found the strength to speak.

“You know I'd look after him anyway, have been for hours before you came barging into our home uninvited. I've killed men for him before. You must know that, being God and all.” Mycroft turned on his umbrella and raised an eyebrow.

“You aren't threatened by me because I killed Moran. You just don't like the way I had to do it. Well what would you have preferred? Would you rather I let him die? Was it too distasteful to you even when-” John took a deep breath and composed himself. He looked at Mycroft hard in the eyes. “You liked me better when I was powerless.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I did.” If John didn't know better, he might have said that Mycroft looked sad. Then he turned again and left without looking back.

He waited until he heard the faint echo of the front door closing before he drew a deep breath and tipped his head into his waiting palms. John was a soldier, so John didn't cry.

And really, what was there to be upset about? Sure it had been comforting thinking that the man behind the curtain of the British government at least, didn't seem to mind the Gifted. No matter what public policy may have said. Sure, it was alarming and upsetting to have that kind notion ripped into tiny confetti pieces. No one likes to discover that a tentative ally is really just an enemy in waiting.

John, entirely without realising it, had clung to the hope that maybe one day, between the Holmes brothers, enough of the world could be shaken up and reordered that his people could finally be equals in the eyes of the law.

But as it turned out, Mycroft only liked Gifted who had their wings clipped. Which was beyond terrifying because what if... what if he tried to force on others what John had been through? Some kind of drug or treatment. A “cure” via intentionally cultivated PTSD. John could see the possibilities rolling out before him like a bushfire hunting down every wisp of tinder

A mockery of proper medical practices, individuals too desperate with the desire to be normal to see reason, and everyone agreeing it was an unsavory business, but for the best. 'They're dangerous you know, always have been. Something must be done.'

John was an educated man. He could never forget the things that had been done in the past, in the name of science, to people like him. And he knew all too well what Mycroft Holmes was capable of. The only real question was would he be willing to go that far? Just how repulsive did he find the gifted? How did John not see this before?

Even now, with Sherlock alive and the last of Moriarty's web cold in the ground, it seemed John's problems weren't over. His only comfort was that he would have at least a few relatively quiet days shut up in 221b he could use to pull himself together.

...

“I'll take the case!”

“No you bloody well will not,” John said calmly. Sherlock turned to his friend, not quite swaying on his feet. His dark hair only accentuated his pallor, the painful cut of his cheekbones and the swooping beaten eggplant color under his eyes. John could see his lips forming the word 'why' and in order to stop himself from strangling his best friend (thereby killing him not a week after he miraculously rose from the dead and needed John to save his life) he turned to Dimmick. “Leave.”

The look on John's face said more than words ever could apparently, because the Inspector turned and left with a mumbled, “I'll be in touch.” Sherlock's rather public and dramatic exoneration some months earlier had left everyone in the media falling all over themselves to love him. People ate it up like crack-candy and so many angry letters were sent to the yard that they were forced to issue a public apology to a dead man. It was no surprise that the weasley little opportunist Dimmock had popped 'round as soon as the news had leaked at the yard of Sherlock's return.

“Just because he's not in the room doesn't mean I'm off the case,” Sherlock said with great dignity as John grabbed the discarded afghan off the floor and carefully wrapped it around his friend again. “I'm not a child!”

“Then stop acting like one! I'm trying to save your life you great idiot!” Finally erupting. John was not naturally the sort of man who enjoyed holding his tongue, who had untapped wells of patience to waste when there was something important that needing doing. Taking care of Sherlock definitely fell in that category, and he’d bulldoze through whatever bullshit he needed to in order to make sure that Sherlock was taken care of to his satisfaction. Even if most of that bullshit came directly from Sherlock.

“It's been four days since the incident,” Sherlock replied softly, clutching his afghan with one hand and touching John's shoulder with the other. John couldn't meet his eyes. They hadn't spoken of it while Sherlock was healing and the detective doubted if they ever really would.

“Things like Moran... they don't kill you all at once. You know that. If you don't give your chi time to replenish itself and heal there can be lasting effects. Permanent damage, Sherlock. I won’t let you risk it. It's too dangerous. Why do you think Lestrade isn't banging down our door? He actually cares about your recovery.” Sherlock looked like he was going to argue but he also looked like death warmed over and probably felt worse. He wisely decided to pick his battles.

“How long then, doctor, must I sit on my hands around this flat?” John assessed him for a moment and Sherlock held his chin high. John pursed his lips.

“I'd like to say a month but at least two weeks. At least.”

“That seems excessive. A competent Healer could reduce that period exponentially.”

“Too bad we don't know any Healers then.” John crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock heaved a great sigh and collapsed on the couch. He eyed the still-steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup and tea John had brought him before Dimmock interrupted with a triple homicide that seemed to have occurred in a moving vehicle.

“What am I supposed to do for two weeks?” he mumbled into the couch cushion.

“Heal,” John said easily. Sherlock turned over on his back and scooted up so his head was cushioned by the arm rest. His messy curled fanned around him like a soft dark halo. He held out one pale imperious hand.

“Then heal me.” The challenge was obvious. Sherlock wasn't going to let this go and if John didn't do something now he'd just push it until one or the other of them snapped. John, for all his natural belligerence, wasn’t a stupid man. He knew there was a point after which fighting was no longer productive. 

He stepped forward and took the long, fine-boned hand between both of his tan ones concentrating on the warmth that flowed through his veins, on the life. His eyes, though open, saw nothing for a moment. Then there was the comforting red, the steady rhythm of Sherlock's heart in his ears. Veins and arteries flowed out from it like rivulets of water unfurling. They branched out, curling around invisible bones and muscles, reaching up to feed the bruised skin, the bruised aura. To any other Healer it would be unthinkable that Sherlock shouldn't be sedated and pampered until all that pulsing burgundy and plum softened out through sickly yellow and bad-blood green. John pulled back before he got carried away.

He refocused on the heart, the intercostal muscles, the diaphragm, the ropey sinew of the skeletal muscles, the artistic weave of his facial muscles relaxed nearly to the point of trance as John's energy supplanted and manipulated his own. There was nothing there that some protein, rest and then exercise couldn't fix, so John moved on.

He caressed Sherlock's joints where they ached, poured energy into old complaints and fresh strains. When he was sure Sherlock would wake feeling limber and hale he went deeper.

The bones were strong and solid and so finely made John felt it would be a tragedy if they weren't in a museum one day (bit not good that, he mused to himself). They were unbroken but the little lines where they had healed would ache in the cold weather niggled at John until he bathed them with attention. Sherlock let out a low moan of relief as John lavished them over and over, waiting for them to be baby-smooth before he turned at last to the Chakras.

There was a timid knock at the door and John broke off contact, reaching for a weapon that was no longer there.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock tried to shout, but it wasn't working. John was still trying to cope with the fact that there was no sand, no heat, no gunfire.

“Am I interrupting something dear? It's only I just saw that inspector leave and I wondered if you would be going out. I was going to fix you boys supper.” She looked curiously between the suddenly sprightly Sherlock and the ashen and shaking John. There was a reason that John didn't advertise his Gift. He hoped to God she wouldn't ask.

He took a seat as Sherlock bounded off the couch to intercept their well-meaning landlady. “I have decided to remain here until Scotland Yard can find a challenge worthy of my attention so dinner won’t be a problem. Unless, of course, you forget to check on the roast and it catches fire. Is that smoke I smell?”

“Sherlock, don't tease,” Mrs. Hudson admonished, hurrying away to check her roast all the same. Sherlock shut the door behind her and whirled around to face John who had by this time managed to take some deep breaths and control his shaking. Only the occasional tremor gave him away.

“Are you alright?” It was that dark, serious tone of voice, the familiar choice of words that brought him back to the memory of the pool. The smell of chlorine, the ghost of a giggling mad man, fear and adrenaline and nausea and miles and miles of unforgiving sand that drank up the blood of his men, his friends, so thirsty, it wasn't fun anymore, they were all dying around him and there was nothing he could do-

A sharp smack across his face turned his head and brought him back to the present. John blinked and took a deep, calming breath. He let it out slowly, keenly aware of Sherlock's sharp observation. John stood up, wishing he had his cane to lean on, and limped away towards the stairs.

“John-”

“I need some time alone. To ground and center.” John ground out the hated phrase that had been so often repeated by the army-assigned therapist after he'd come back from the war. As if sitting cross legged and thinking about stress would solve anything. As if anything short of Sherlock dying in his arms could have brought back his ability to heal after what happened with Bill under the Afghan sun. As if breathing deeply could ever erase the image of Sherlock’s blood spattered on the pavement and not feeling a pulse when he touched his best friend. Of being totally impotent against a tragedy he had never even seen coming.

“Yes I- that's for the best.” If Sherlock sounded unsure John didn't mention it. He simply carried on to his room, limping and shaking and feeling like he could sleep through a war.

It was exactly two weeks later that a rather harangued looking Lestrade showed up and things really started to go to shit.


	6. Conquering the Worm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.
> 
> Chapter title from Rob Zombie's "Dragula"

The boys in 221B could tell as soon as Lestrade stepped foot in the flat that something about this newest body had grossly disturbed him. 

A keen man like Sherlock Holmes wouldn't need more than three seconds of intense, borderline angry squinting at the wrinkles in his suit and the stains on his cuffs to figure out what it was. John, who ran on analogue compared to Sherlock's digital, took a bit longer to forge a guess and even then he bit his tongue. After all, the man hadn't even spoken yet. Lestrade was still catching his breath from running up the stairs as if his arse were on fire.

“The killer has escalated,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Look Sherlock, you've really got to see this. I can't even... I shouldn't even be telling you about this but I'm asking you, as a friend, to come to the scene and see what you can get. We have to go now though, I'm amazed I've been able to hold them off for this long.”

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John, but even if he had decided to object at this point, there was no use. Sherlock was practically vibrating out of his skin in excitement and the exercise , both physical and mental, would aid in his recovery. So would re-establishing the part of his life which generated most of his enthusiasm.

John nodded, not that Sherlock needed the cue to deduce his answer.

Like a jaguar suddenly springing on its prey, Sherlock lept off the couch and snagged his coat from by the door. He tossed John his while toeing on his shoes and the three men tore off down the stairs, racing to the cop car that would usher them to the scene, driving just this side of reckless with full lights and sirens.

Sherlock had the door open before the cruiser had pulled to a full stop. He ran ahead of John and Lestrade, his infuriatingly long legs and quick mind giving him an edge over them both.

“Let him through!” Lestrade yelled at the officers patrolling the scene--several more of them than John had been expecting and more on edge than he'd ever seen them. They stepped aside as Sherlock tore through the tape and dashed up the steps without so much as a backwards glance at his partner and the DI. John scrambled after him, cursing his slightly less than average height as Lestrade rested his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath.

Inside, the building was too quiet. Too still. John's left hand curled and uncurled as he was forcefully reminded of finding Sherlock just two short weeks ago. This house was not half so decayed, and in fact smelled strongly of old lady perfume and cat. An officer stepped out of what must have been the kitchen and nodded down the hallway.

“It's the last door on the left,” the cop said. John pulled himself together enough to give a soldierly nod and stride toward the back of the house. He flattered himself that he didn't limp even a little, though he paused and swallowed thickly before pushing open the slightly ajar door and facing the horror that made homicide inspectors look queasy.  
Of course, in hindsight, John really should have been expecting it.

The Raised had been shot half a dozen times and then left on the floor bound with zip ties and hitched with it's arms over it's head around one of the posts of the foot board. John felt its wrongness wash over him like he was a heron being dumped into an oil slick. He made a vague choking sound as he fought not to flee. Sherlock just stood in the center of the room and stared at the thing that stared back with milky off-color eyes.

“Alright John?” Sherlock asked without turning around.

“It's wrong.” John said. It was all he could say. He felt his body heave but forced himself not to vomit. Couldn't very well contaminate the crime scene could he? The Raised turned it's head to John with a sick crack. It made a noise low in its throat like a gurgle- John could only think it sounded like some perverted version of a baby's laugh. It was wrong- wrong- unnatural- no- make it stop- abort-

And suddenly John was hyperventilating in the hallway outside the room with Sherlock's hands on his shoulders, forcing him down so he was sitting with his knees pressed to his chest. Sherlock was squatting on his toes in front of him, his knees spread open so the bracketed John's, his palms slid up to John's cheeks, tipping his head back, simultaneously opening up his airway and forcing his eyes to meet Sherlock's.

“Breathe, John.” John gasped but he could still feel it behind the walls, the door, that _thing_ , that hungry thing that wanted him, wanted them all, to eat- “Breathe in,” the low baritone said. John obeyed because didn't he always when it was Sherlock? “Breathe out, slowly now John.” John let the breath go, concentrating on not letting it rush out all at once like it wanted too. 

“Breathe in.” John did. 

“Now out.” John did.

“Breathe in and concentrate on your shields this time. Build them up as the breath fills you now John.” John did, and suddenly he could feel the discomfort of his cramping leg, of the hardwood floor under his bum, could see the otherworldly blue-white glow of his shields growing stronger as he poured more of his concentration and will into them. Finally, though he still felt slightly off kilter, John was able to draw in a long breath and numb himself to the aberration of nature in the next room.

When he looked at Sherlock with clear and only slightly unsettled eyes, the detective's spine seemed to sag, even in his cramped position.

“I apologise John, a thousand times over if I must. I had no idea you would be so affected.”

“It's alright, I'm alright.” Though John's voice was slightly off both men did each other the favor of ignoring it. Sherlock's hands fell back to John's shoulders, and now that the danger had passed, his look took on a more calculating edge.

“Are all of the Gifted so sensitive to Necromancy? Is it just Healers that are susceptible to these kinds of reactions?”

“Jesus, Sherlock, I don't know. I only know that it's me--even in Afghanistan with my shields constantly up like a bank vault they were more unnerving to me than anyone else I knew. I can't imagine any other Healer would feel differently but I don't know. I've never asked.” Their conversation had a natural lull wherein both men took the time to contemplate their own trains of thought. It was broken quite abruptly when Molly was ushered in with much urgency and ruckus by Lestrade and Sally and the ever-vocal Anderson whose nasal stream of complaints filled the background between Lestrade's pointed questioning and Sally's demands that everyone hurry up, watch out and get out of the way.

“All this for one little old lady's zombie,” Sherlock joked under his breath to John, who only managed a weak smile. Sherlock, for all his mastery of the five senses, had absolutely no talent whatsoever with the sixth sense--that which allowed Gifted to sense and manipulate chakras and chi. He couldn't _feel_ what was in that room the way John could and would never really understand. Not like Molly, at any rate, who paused despite her being strongly shepherded in order to shoot a sympathetic look at John.

He could see the offer on her lips but he shook her head. The touch of a Necromancer may numb his internal alarm system to the thing in the other room but it wouldn't make him feel better, not really. Her talents were needed elsewhere and John felt, perhaps irrationally, that he had displayed enough weakness for the day, thank-you-very-much.

There was no need to slow down the investigation on his account or draw attention to his little breakdown. If he hadn't been emotionally compromised by memories of finding Sherlock, if he had checked his shields before moving on from that moment, if he had spared a thought to what might be--could only be--behind that door, then he would still be on his feet with none the wiser. Okay, none but Sherlock and perhaps Molly (Necromancers seemed to have a nose for that kind of thing).

John hardly noticed when Sherlock sprang to his feet and followed fluidly after Molly and co., back into the room, lost as he was on rebuilding his shields and grounding and centering himself. Sherlock paused at the doorway and turned back to his colleague. “I'll be back in a moment John--the investigation, you understand, you must. Don't move. I'll just be a moment.” John nodded absently and wondered if he was truly needed or if he should just grab a cab back to Baker street now and leave Sherlock unimpeded.

Even as a Gifted there was no use for his skills now--nothing to be healed or harmed about the dead and he was sure Molly could answer any questions Sherlock might have about Necromancy, the Forbidden Arts thereof and how Gifted and regular humans alike reacted to them.

There seemed to be nothing else to do but scrape himself together and cart his tired old bones home, once again rendered useless and left to limp away from a crime scene after having been abandoned by Sherlock Holmes. This time he wouldn't have the benefit of the cane's aid.

….

He got as far as the kitchen door before the scream pulled him back, dodgy leg forgotten in the flash of a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and reviews very much welcomed!


	7. Dig Up Her Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John has a bad day and dead things fight back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently anxiety translates into new chapters, so enjoy!  
> Chapter title from song of the same name by The Misfits.  
> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

“Sherlock!” John screamed as he ripped open the door, plunging back into the twisted abyss of aura that choked the room like a slick smoke from a house fire.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, his eyes bright with delight and edged with panic. He was backed into a corner, but unhurt and removed from the main of the action. With John's shields at maximum there was little risk of a repeat meltdown. That sorted in a split second both men's eyes turned to the thrashing Raised, its gnashing yellow teeth straining for Molly's neck as Lestrade did his best to hold it down.

“Now Molly, now! You've got to do it now!” He yelled, twisting the Raised's arm behind its back and forcing its cheek against the thick scarred wood of the footboard.

“It's not exactly that _easy_ Greg!” Molly darted forward tentatively, and cracked and jagged nails grabbed at her skirt, just touching the edge as Molly jumped away. “Hold her still!”

“I'm doing my best!” Greg shouted. “Just kill this fucking bitch again so I can get my men in here!” It was only now that John noticed Anderson in the far corner of the room by the headboard, bleeding heavily from his forearm as Donovan applied pressure to the wound and tried to make soothing noises despite her panic and Anderson's constant wails.

“I'm doing all I can but I need to get my hands on her!” Molly seemed on the verge of tears. John took a step forward just as she tried to rush at the Raised, grabbing for its leg. Molly dodged a powerful kick aimed at her nose with a terrified cry, stumbling away until she bumped up against John. She screamed and spun, her arms raised, drawing her power before she realised who was against her.

“No!” Sherlock screamed, darting forward. From her posture alone it was obvious what instinct had prepared her to do, even to someone as Gift-blind as Sherlock.

But, though everyone seemed to keep forgetting, John was still fundamentally a soldier. He caught her wrists and pushed back, harder stronger, flooding her system with his Chi like a flash flood. It was clear immediately who was the stronger Gifted when Molly sagged into John's hold.

“Oh God,” she gasped, slurring and limp against John's chest. He was all that was holding her up. All things considered it had taken very little effort on John's part.

Sherlock hesitated, but then threw himself on the Raised's legs with a grunt, helping Lestrade pin the creature despite the fact that this meant his back was turned to the fascinating scene between the Healer and the Necromancer. Rumors of battles like this between Gifted dated back to antiquity but they were so very rarely witnessed that there was legitimate scientific doubt as to whether or not such a thing was actually real.

What he wouldn't give to observe such a thing when a Zombie wasn't attempting to ensure the immediate and painful death of everyone within a ten mile radius.

“Might as well give it a shot,” John muttered to himself. He concentrated on drawing back his excess chi until she was left at a more reasonable level and then broke contact.

Molly swayed on her feet, her eyes glossed and her pupils blown. “It's so bright,” she murmured, raising her arms in wonder and looking at the apparently empty air around her. “Oh, John, I never knew!” John marshaled himself hard to block out what he knew she was seeing--what he could see too if he only concentrated--because there was a rabid thing throwing all its weight at Sherlock and Lestrade and that was not to be borne.

John slapped her, as gently as he dared given how hopped up she was on life. “You're Gifted. You're a Healer!” she stuttered, staring at John like he had just announced that he had a 10 inch golden dildo in his back pocket.

“Put that thing down!” he yelled, grabbing her shoulders hard enough to bruise.

“I can't use it like this- I'm, I'm sorry, I-” Molly swallowed hard, steeling herself in a way that John found quite impressive, given the circumstances. “You have to try the other way. Backwards.”

“You can't be serious.” He dropped his hands from her like he'd been burned.

“Please John, there's no time!”

“Whatever it is, for God's sake do it John!” Sherlock yelled, nearly inaudible thanks to the fact that the old lady's cheap elastic slipper was being pushed against his face as he tried to wrangle her bent legs down to the floor.

“I hope you know what you're asking for,” John said gently. Molly nodded stoutly and turned so that she and John were side by side. John took her hand, felt her pulse thrumming through her fingers and followed it up to her heart. In the space of a breath she started screaming.

Screaming because John was torturing her. Torturing her because each Gifted had their own way of tapping into their Gift and while John's was primarily centered around life, Molly's needed something a little darker to spark it so it could take John's donation of Chi and use it immediately.

And Molly had asked him to do the opposite of Healing her, which he was doing despite the excruciating pain that kicked back, radiating up his arm and twisting his insides. He gritted his teeth and almost didn't notice when Molly held out her free hand and flexed her fingers inward, drawing on the ambient energy around the Raised like pulling at loose strings.

It went immediately stiff. Lestrade, Sherlock, and even Donovan now, stared on as if the two had spontaneously burst into flames naked. One might think they'd never seen two Gifted working together before.

Molly and John stepped forward, out of synch and trembling and bent down so Molly could lay her hand on the exposed skin of the Raised's ankle. Immediately all the force that had been animating the body- John seriously hesitated when it came to calling that shit Chi- slid out and dispersed. Molly pushed it toward the Earth where it could be recycled and do the least harm.

Molly and John broke contact, falling away from each other. Sherlock was able to steady John with a firm hand to his shoulder, balancing him while his head cleared. Lestrade went to a dazed Molly and called for the boys outside to send the paramedics in. He had to assure them three times that the thing was dead- truly dead this time- before anyone would so much as toe the door open.

“Well that was exciting,” John said, trying to lighten the mood once he came back to himself a bit more.

“John, you've been hiding a great many things from me,” Sherlock said with gentle intensity. John grimaced, anticipating the endless slew of questions and questionably ethical experiments he would be subjected to in the near future.

“Yes, that genetic freak has been hiding a great many things from all of us!” Anderson cried shrilly, much braver now that the danger was over and he was receiving proper medical treatment. “Like the fact that he's one of the devil's bastards! Who even knows what kind of unnatural things he can do. To think we've been letting him touch us this whole time! We played right into his hands, never even thought about it. He has a medical license for Christ's sake!”

“Anderson, do the entire department a favor and shut the fuck up,” Lestrade said, exhausted and cradling a trembling and out of sorts Molly. John couldn't help a quick glance at Sherlock's face to see his barely there smirk of approval at the insult. Sally and one of the paramedics helped Anderson stand so he could walk to the door.-

He glanced down at John with disgust that couldn't quite hide his fear as he passed them. Sherlock caught Anderson's eye.

“If you ever say anything like that about John in my presence again I will choke you on your own small intestine. Do I make myself clear?” Sherlock said with perfect biting calm.

John shouldn't have, he really shouldn't have, but he found that simple statement of fact to be incredibly comforting. His secret may be out, but his real friends were still true even if they were ‘a bit not good’.

“You watch your mouth Freak!” Donovan yelled. “You think I can't take you in for making death threats? Well you'd better think again, hadn't you.” Sally let her glare slip over to John. “I've got no problem with what you are John, as long as you don't misuse it. I'll keep my eye on you- on the both of you,” Sally said, including Sherlock in her side-eyeing. “Suddenly a lot of things are making a lot more sense,” she muttered as she helped Anderson toward the door.

“Freaks stick together I suppose,” Anderson whispered, just loud enough to be heard. Sherlock growled and made to go after them but John just grabbed the sleeve of his coat and shook his head.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said warningly, too tuckered out to yell properly. Sherlock waved the Detective Inspector's complaint away without looking at him. He simply kneeled by John and watched Anderson being taken from the room as if he were a wild animal that might decide to snap at any moment.

...

John waved away a concerned paramedic. “I'm fine. I'm a doctor and a Healer, I know my own body.” How good it felt to say that again. The medic hesitated and Sherlock pushed as her legs.

“Piss off,” he growled. “Everyone out! You're contaminating the crime scene the lot of you! And someone get me another Necromancer! Now!”

“Sherlock, the trail is gone,” John said in muted tones.

“What?” said the detective, indignant.

John looked to Molly for confirmation as this was very much not his area. She nodded a bit and he looked back at Sherlock who was very much not relishing his ignorance. “Molly cleared the trail--purified it, sort of. Look, it's hard to explain but that malevolent energy, she pushed it down into the Earth where it can't do any more harm.”

“Why-- _how_ could someone ever do something so idiotic!” Sherlock cried. “She's destroyed evidence!”  
“People could get hurt Sherlock! No responsible Gifted would ever leave something so twisted sitting around where it might latch on to someone else. No matter how powerful the Necromancer, they'll never be able to follow the trail back to anyone. They could never identify who did it without getting a good impression of their work which is-”

“Gone, yes.” Sherlock looked contemplative. “Then it would seem our best bet is Ms. Hooper.” John shot him such a fierce look he hastened to add, “After she's rested up a bit.” When this mollified John to an acceptable level, Sherlock stood and offered him a hand. John let himself be pulled to his feet.

“The old fashion method then,” Sherlock said, clapping his hands with exaggerated relish. “Brilliant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's anything you don't quite get or would like to see more of please let me know!  
> Comments, critiques, suggestions and kudos are all very much welcomed and appreciated <3


	8. Who are you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John follow the meager evidence closer to the Necromancer. They're met with more questions than answers, the biggest one being- What could this case cost them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.
> 
> Chapter title from "Who Are You?" by The Who

“Before this we'd just been looking for a normal bloke,” Lestrade said, cradling the burnt out Molly against his shoulder and sounding exhausted himself. His eyes darted to John a split second before he said, “Well, nor _normal_ , just not Gifted. You know.”

“Yes, yes, obvious, moving on,” Sherlock said with a dramatically put upon wave of his hand. “Do feel free to take Ms. Hooper somewhere else. Preferably somewhere _not in the way_.”

“I think what Sherlock means to say is that neither of you are looking your best right now. Why don't you cart Molly somewhere decent and get some fresh food in the both of you. Something healthy, preferably raw veggies for her and maybe some sugar and protein for you,” John said with a doctorly smile.

“Best bloody idea I've heard all day,” Lestrade agreed. He heaved himself and Molly up with a grunt and walked her out with one of her arms over his shoulder and one of his around her waist. The door shut with a soft click behind them and John turned the full weight of his focus back to Sherlock. There was absolute silence for thirty seconds before Sherlock designed to turn on his heel and face John.

“Why now?” the detective asked suddenly. “What about this crime, this body, was so vital that he had to do _this_ when he was just killing them before?” Sherlock fiddled ran his fingertips gently over the scratches the old woman's corpse had left on her foot board during the struggle. “She was Raised for a purpose. It takes a great deal of effort to do, exponentially more when the Necromancer is at a distance from their puppet.”

“Yes,” Said John, though it wasn't a question.

“And yet,” Sherlock continued, “It was completely complacent until someone tried to touch it. What's the point?” Sherlock began to pace, his eyes roaming around the musty room as if the answers would be written on the furniture. Perhaps for Sherlock Holmes they would be.

“Tell me about the other victims. I already know Lestrade sent you the file, don't bother denying it.” John said calmly, watching Sherlock rather than trying his hand at deduction. He still knew how this worked, even though it had been a while since he'd done it last.

“No apparent connection between them except the fact that no discernible cause of death could be found and that they were all bound with zip-ties. Each was kidnapped, held for no less than an hour and no more than four and then killed and left in a different location with no indication of sexual or physical harm having been done to them.

“Leah Knowles, 46, housewife, first victim. Went missing at a Tesco near her home and turned up in a skip off Collier street.

“Stephanie Czbeck, 19, University student, went missing from her apartment in Camden, found in a public loo ten streets away.

“Brent Farber, 53, successful banker, never made it home from work, found on the front porch of a youth hostel in Islington that he helped fund.

“Now Beatrice Harbor, a retired grandmother, found in her own house tied to her bed and eating raw steaks thanks to an anonymous tip, likely the killer himself showing off his latest handiwork.”

“I'm sorry,” John interrupted. “Did you say she was eating raw steaks when they found her?”

Sherlock shot John a disappointed look that spoke volumes about how he felt to be repeating information at a critical juncture like this.“Yes. And that spectacle is only part of the reason why I believe the Necromancer is trying to send some sort of message.

“We both know that zombies, the Raised, whatever people are calling them, don't need to eat meat to 'survive'. They have no initiative whatsoever; they merely do as they have been commanded by their Master. Ergo, the thing must have been commanded to eat. Why? It means something but _what_?” Sherlock shook his hair out in a moment of frustration.

John hesitated, then said, “In Afghanistan I saw Necromancers command the Raised to eat limbs of soldiers and civilians that had been blown off by IEDs.” John took a deep breath to steel himself against the onslaught of memories- the _smell_ -

“Necromancers have to animate the Raised with their own energy. It would be exhausting. The Raised absorbed the chi from the flesh they ate but they couldn't hold on to it. The extra chi lent them enough energy to travel farther from their masters but it only lasted twenty minutes. Maximum.”

“What happened if they weren't within range when it wore off?”

“They dropped like empty husks.” John cleared his throat, clenching his fist hard enough that he knew there would be crescent cuts in his palm later. He made it a point not to think about Afghanistan if he could help it for a reason.

Sherlock regarded John, opened his mouth and then, perhaps in an uncharacteristic bout of tact, closed it again and stepped back, giving John room to breathe. He bent to examine the twisted plastic leftovers of the zip ties. He carefully didn't look away from them as he addressed his partner. “That was extremely helpful information John, thank you.”

“I don't know of that trick works with animal meat, especially if it isn't fresh. Like, off the hoof fresh. Even if it did I doubt it would do much compared to the sheer malevolence coming off that thing, Sherlock. It was potent. Even Molly was put off for Christ's sake! It might have been the strongest one I've ever seen.”

“Perhaps the Necromancer was trying to hedge his bets but I doubt it. And now we're back to the meat being symbolic. Exceptionally strong Necromancer trying to send a message, not a novice trying to figure out how to keep their little toy animated while they pop 'round to the shops.

“But what's the point of it all? Only a handful of people saw the gesture. Of course half of Scotland Yard will know by morning but there's no guarantee anything will be publicized. Why go through all this trouble just to--oh!” And just like that Sherlock was gripping the broken zip ties triumphantly and giving John the insufferable we-both-know-what's-going-on-here face.

He raced to the nearest bathroom and flipped on the light. He did a quick scan of the room, pressed his hand against the two towels hanging on the rack and then quirked a smile and shut off the light again. He disappeared into the living room without telling John what the bloody hell was going on. Par for the course then, this investigation.

Sherlock crouched by the sofa, pulling out his portable magnifying glass and calling to a nearby officer to bring him an evidence bag, quickly. He delicately plucked one long black hair from the fibers of the sagging cushions and tucked it in the bag.

“Mrs. Harbor has recently had a guest John. Two damp towels in the bathroom, a new vanilla honey scented body wash clearly not meant for the elderly Mrs. Harbor who prefers to use bar soap. She was here for at least two days yet Mrs. Harbor had no signs of bruising or defensive would prior to her death. She knew and trusted her guest. There was hardly a struggle when she was killed.

“A young woman with long black hair has been kipping on her sofa, no evidence of luggage or belongings left behind. Either she doesn't have any or she took them all with her when she left. It would seem the killer is on the run.” Sherlock grinned at John.

“Brilliant,” John said, amazed once more that Sherlock had known exactly where to look for something as fine and delicate as a single strand of hair and a new body wash.

...

The detective slipped the remains of the ties into his pocket and whipped out his blackberry with a pleased flourish. As he strode to the exit, with a confused but excited John, he typed out a quick text.

“The zip ties are the key,” Sherlock told John offhandedly. “Would someone with complete control over a being without any will of its own restrain it? Even the most untrained novice would realise that the dead are no threat to a Necromancer. The locations where they were found, the zip-ties, now the meat, all if it is staged. It's a performance aiming to get a reaction.

“The killer isn't doing this at random. She's picking these people off one by one and she wants her audience to know it.” Sherlock hailed a cab and held the door open for John to enter first. Sherlock thumbed at his Blackberry as he settled himself then absentmindedly rattled off an address in Camden at the driver.

“Okay, I'll bite, where are we going and what message is the Necromancer trying to send?

“To Camden John. Do pay attention.”

“Sherlock.” It was John's warning tone. It always got results but with his flatmate sometimes those results weren't the ones he was hoping for.

“We likely won’t know the message until we identify the killer, the audience or both. As for Camden,” Sherlock shot him a quick distracted grin, “the college student and the banker have one connection, they both volunteer hours at a shelter for homeless teenagers. Neither of the other victims had anything to do with it but If we're lucky perhaps our murderer will be one of the poor, disenfranchised youths." Sherlock said, slipping into an accent that was not quite his own. John raised an eyebrow and mentally prepared himself to see one of Sherlock's 'I'm-a-normal-person' acts.

...

For The Night Youth Shelter was small, and made more so by the way the space was crammed with people and beds. In a way it was a closed environment- a miniature city within London. The second someone walked in there was a blast of spicy scent from the four-person kitchen that was trying to feed thirty.

Dozens of eyes turned to the opening of the door, like a skittish pack of cats waiting for one stray sound or movement to scatter. Sherlock saw a few try to stifle grins when they recognised him. The benefits he reaped from having developed the homeless network continued to astound him. He decided to stick with his plan and interrogate the volunteers first. There would always be time to contact the network later, after all.

“Can I help you?” a middle aged Asian woman asked, wiping her work-worn hands on a dishcloth.

“Hi,” Sherlock cooed with his cheesiest grin. He knew this must be Lian Chan, one of the founders of the organization. “I'm Steve Joseph and this is my partner, Mark.” Sherlock let his hand slide from John's shoulder to his elbow. John fought hard at the instinct to roll his eyes and instead smiled tightly. “We were friends with Brent, may he rest in peace,”

Sherlock paused and attempted to look appropriately grief stricken for a flamboyant drama queen before plowing on. “We wanted to do something to honour his memory and we know how dear this place was to him. Do you think we could take a moment of your time to get acclimatised, maybe lend you a pair of hands?”

And just like that, they were in. Sherlock wore an apron and scrubbed at dishes while gabbing with the 20 year old art student, Peter, who was once best friends with Stephanie Czbeck, victim number two. Peter was straight, which was inconvenient given the character Sherlock had chosen, but certainly not a deal breaker.

Before long Sherlock had an earful of how sweet Stephanie was, and how she got along with everyone, even Brent who obviously meant well but just wasn't very good with people, you know. Why, just two weeks before she died Stephanie had gone to Brent for help finding this lost, terrified orphan's grandmother. Stephanie always went the extra mile to help those who needed it.

Sherlock and John slipped out while Peter bawled in Lian's arms. A significant look was all Sherlock needed to give to insure that Rachel followed them a few seconds later and caught them up down the block.

“This girl Stephanie had taken a special interest in,” Sherlock said without preamble. “Tell me about her.”

“Money first,” Rachel said through a thick cockney accent. Sherlock rolled his eyes and slipped her a twenty pound note.

“When have I ever failed to pay for good information?” he asked her dryly.

“No reason to take chances,” Rachel replied, carefully tucking the folded bill into her bra. “She was foreign, black hair, real tan skin, some kind of accent but I don't know where she was from. Didn't say much. Played that shy orphan bollocks up to the volunteers, but you ask me that bitch was dangerous. Something about her wasn't right.”

“How long was she at the shelter?” Sherlock demanded.

“Only two nights and then she fucked off to Granny's apparently. You want me to tell the others to keep an eye out for her? You think she's the one that's been killing people?” Rachel asked.

“It's certainly looking likely,” Sherlock said. “Tell the others to watch but do not approach. You know how to reach me.” Rachel nodded and went back the way she had come.

“Okay,” he said. “What does this mean? Help me Sherlock because I'm totally lost. If this girl is our killer why is she going after these people? Don't tell me, it about the grandmother all along and Stephanie and Brent were just collateral damage as she tried to cover her tracks.” John's rage was building and Sherlock faltered for a second. 

“It's a cardinal mistake to theorize before we have all the data. That theory doesn't account for the first victim nor the peculiarities of the most recent one.”

“So in other words, you don't know.”

“Not what I said John.” Sherlock was irritated. Something about this case wasn't sitting right. Was it just John's reactions that were throwing him off? Sherlock had rarely seen him so passionate about a case. "We just need to find this girl and ask her ourselves." Sherlock started to walk away, but John's firm hand on his arm tugged him back. 

"Don't go after this girl on your own. Sherlock I'm serious. A Necromancer this strong might not even need to touch you to affect your chi, besides the fact that you have no idea how many Raised she could have at her command. This is ten times more dangerous than-" The rigid line of John's shoulders, the bruising grip on Sherlock's wrist, his military stance-it all screamed out to Sherlock more than any words were able. 

He turned his arm over and pulled back the sleeve of his greatcoat. A confused John looked down at his own hand, realising where it was. He pried his fingers away but let them hover uncertainly as Sherlock unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them away from his wrist.

John's eyes flicked from the offered pulse point to Sherlock's eyes and then back. Hurting Molly had made him feel wrong, a violation of his Gift. The worst part was that it hadn't even been very hard and that, more than anything, terrified him. What if people like Mycroft weren't quite wrong about the Gifted? John could easily be a danger to Sherlock. One touch, one thought...

He took a deep breath and let his fingers wrap around the soft warm flesh, his thumb rested over the pulse point and all at once he could see Sherlock's chi singing around him, bright and rushing from the thrill of the chase, colours swimming into each other and bursting outward exuberantly. The energy slowed the longer John touched it, warming in welcome and making him shiver. 

The warm cocoon of it that was not unlike being cuddled in his mother's lap as a child, but despite the pleasure of it he was still aware on some level that they were on the street in the middle of Camden and passers-by were eyeing them suspiciously. The Gifted were not so accepted that this was a good idea to do in public, this act of ultimate trust.

"I'm not going anywhere without my Healer," Sherlock's deep voice rumbled softly as John let go. In that moment John wanted nothing more than to go home, to the secure warmth of Baker Street, and sleep for a decade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed it! 
> 
> What's going to happen when everyone at the met hears about John' Gift? What's this Necromancer up to? Is everything really what is seems to be? Give me your theories, I'd love to know what you guys are thinking!
> 
> And if there's anything you really want to see or don't want to see or would like explained don't hesitate to ask :)
> 
> Comments, kudos, questions, and constructive criticism are always welcome.


	9. Zombie Prostitute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crime doesn't sleep, and neither it seems, does Sherlock Holmes. John Watson has a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Voltaire's song "Zombie Prostitute" which I highly recommend you check out. 
> 
> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

For three days Sherlock was pulling out his hair, analyzing the crimes from every angle, exploring every possibility and coming up with nothing.

It was at once infuriating the detective and ratcheting up his manic glee to hitherto unforeseen heights. Truth be told, John was a bit anxious for Sherlock's continued health and tenuous sanity.

He was even more worried about the fact that he and Sherlock hadn't touched since their moment on the street. It wasn't that he thought anything was wrong it was just that it made him... anxious. Sherlock's beehive energy seemed to fill every room in Baker Street. No matter where John went, he couldn't escape it.

By the time the next corpse was found John was almost desperate enough to slip a mild sedative in the detective's tea and hope that a few hours of sleep would be enough to calm him down enough to see reason. Even without looking at Sherlock's aura (which he would never do unsolicited unless he believed it to be a real emergency) John knew his chi must be frenzied and strained to the point of illness.

In the true art of healers, especially out-of-practice ones, John felt the tumult of Lestrade's chi barreling up the stairs even as Sherlock stilled at the pounding of his feet.

Their door swung open to a panting DI.

“We've got another lively one,” he said.

“More Raised?” John asked sharply. He'd known it was coming to this, this escalation Sherlock had been prattling on about erratically as he paced the living room and tried unsuccessfully to wheedle more nicotine patches out of John.

Sherlock eyed John who tilted his chin defiantly. He wasn't some delicate Normal who would faint at the first sign of the walking dead.

“Where is it?” Sherlock asked.

“Not far. If we run we'll have at least ten minutes before Molly gets there.” Sherlock nodded tersely and grabbed his coat, swirling it over his shoulders and following Lestrade down the stairs without waiting for John to toe on his shoes and follow.

...

This one was a young boy, a teenager in dirty jeans and tattered backpack. His long hair lay in a greasy tangled halo around him. He had received a swift but comprehensive beating not long before his death. His jaw was smooth and angular, probably broken a bit, his hollow cheeks defined by hunger, bruised eyes in sunken sockets the color of ripe plums. His eyes had probably been green when he was alive, but now the red veins around them popped grotesquely and the white of them had been stained yellow as if by old cigarette smoke.

The corpse turned its head and smiled at Sherlock as he cautiously pushed aside the black plastic that hid the grubby alley from public view and walked in. Lestrade was close at his heels and John not far behind.

This had none of the clinical efficiency the detective had seen in the crime scene photos of the first few murders, nor any of the grotesque kindness offered to the last one in her quick and painless end.

The murder was angry when this was done.

The boy had been beaten with a tyre iron, with fists, likely with his own chi if the way John staggered against the brick was any indication. The three men stood and stared for a few seconds as the Raised clawed at the rusty padlocked chain that held it to the dumpster.

John cleared his throat. “Molly won’t be able to handle this on her own. We can't keep asking her to do this. We need to find a stronger Necromancer,” he said.

“And we can't keep asking you to help her, I know. But what other Necromancer do you know with her clearance who's willing to risk exposure over this?” Lestrade asked.

“Maybe Mycroft-” but the thought derailed as soon as he said the name. Mycroft had made his opinions on the Gifted very clear recently and John had no reason to believe he'd keep them in his employ anymore.

“Shut up, the both of you. Leave if you're not going to be useful.” Neither man so much as glanced back at the black plastic.

The Raised snarled at Sherlock, reaching for him with clawed fingers it's teeth clicking together as it lunged when he took a step closer. Lestrade yanked him back just as John got a good grip on his greatcoat.

“My God, be careful!” Lestrade admonished. “Do you have a fucking death wish?” Sherlock shot Lestrade a furious look just as the man realised what he'd said and John went stiff and closed down beside him.

“John,” Sherlock said, urgently, reaching for him. John swatted his hand away fiercely.

“I'm fine, Sherlock, for fucks sake just go-” John waved his hand at the Raised. “Just don't get bitten. Don't let it touch you.” John's fists were clenched at his sides, and he stared down over his right shoulder at the pavement, with his teeth ground together.

Sherlock swallowed and nodded then turned around, bit his lip for a second and then stalked back toward the thing that was still writhing against the dumpster. This was a case after all, and Sherlock already knew that he was more than useless in personal matters. At this point he could only make it worse by pushing it. But maybe if John had time to cool off and Sherlock solved this case brilliantly, John would light up again and tell Sherlock how brilliantly he'd done it and how amazing it was, even if it was really only rather good.

Sherlock had really rather been hoping that their first case together after his return would bring them back to normal, not shift them further off balance.

He took a deep breath and banished those foolish thoughts to the back of his mind. Regrets were utterly pointless, and so, to an extent, were hopes. He merely had to focus on the task at hand.

In hindsight Sherlock found it unfathomably stupid of him not to notice the message sooner. A quick glance of the surrounding area confirmed there were no CCTV cameras, hidden or otherwise, so at least Mycroft would never know of his slip.

It was rolled up and sheathed in a dark green wine bottle, the label of which had been badly torn off. The paper stuck out of the mouth of the bottle just enough to be visible to any common observe, and obvious to someone with the skill set of a Holmes.

It was on its side in a puddle that smelled of piss, shined with streaky rainbows of oil, and was dark with filth and sediment. It had probably been kicked and rolled sometime during the puppet's fruitless thrashing. There was no way for Sherlock to safely get at it without coming within range of the grinning Raised's grasping hands.

He would just have to examine the corpse and wait for Molly, no matter how that rankled him.

A runaway, likely seventeen, desperate for cash and willing to sell what he had to to get it, given the pattern of wear around the knees of his jeans and the state of his cuffs. Sherlock didn't recognize him from the homeless network, but that wasn't usual, especially given his age. It was always harder to gain the trust of the young ones- so cynical, so volatile, with so much more to lose somehow.

This boy had certainly lost everything one could possibly lose. He lacked all the tell-tale signs of living in a group, unlike most of the homeless his age. He'd come from a middle class family judging by the quality of his few threadbare possessions. Maybe one or both of his patents was abusive, maybe they kicked him out because he was gay, perhaps he had a mental illness, no way to know for sure after he'd been on the streets this long but at a guess Sherlock would say abusive household, likely the father statistically speaking. The sex work was about money, not preference, and his clothing and bodily maintenance reflected that.

Before he could eek anymore details out of the thrashing beast, Molly slipped in past the black plastic curtain.

“Oh God,” she said, crossing one hand over her stomach and covering her mouth with the other.

“Hey, it's alright. You're alright. He can't hurt you, remember,” Lestrade soothed, rubbing her arm. Sherlock spared them both an eyebrow quirk then stepped back from the corpse and waved Molly on expectantly. Molly's eyes darted to John.

“Let's just do what we have to do.” Molly swallowed thickly and nodded. She handed her messenger bag to Lestrade with a queasy little smile and then shrugged out of her misshapen baby pink sweater and laid it across Lestrade's proffered arm. She took a few deep breaths, mentally preparing herself while the DI looked away and Sherlock eyed her and John keenly. John's head was down, clearly about to bullishly charge through the encounter Molly was attempting to tolerate.

When she was ready she held out her hand, not trembling, to her credit. John let out a harsh breath through his nose, clenched his fist then spread his fingers wide before taking it. Both Gifted flinched away from each other at the same time but their hands remained gripped tight, white knuckled with the effort. They stepped forward as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you may have noticed I officially designated this story as Johnlock now. This is kind of tentative as I continue to rework and edit my notes, ideas and plot arc as I write and new things hit me. It feels really organic and fitting to go in that direction although I was originally intending to keep this story Gen. I would really love it and appreciate it if you guys could leave comments or even email me and let me know what you think of this change. It isn't set in stone so if you love it or you hate it and you let me know that will definitely influence how I move forward with this. 
> 
> As always, comments suggestions, reviews, and kudos are my life's blood and my love <3


	10. I Don't Give a Damn 'Cause I'm Stone Dead Already

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consulting Detectives shouldn't play with dead things.
> 
> Especially when they're still moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many thanks to my dearest Moirai for all her help and encouragement with this chapter, and the series in general. 
> 
> Eternal gratitude also to everyone who commented on the last chapter 
> 
> Chapter title from "Zombie Jamboree" of which there are many wonderful versions.
> 
> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

As intimate as sex and as enjoyable as having his kidney ripped out through his spine with a plastic spoon, joining his Gift with Molly's had not quite been something John was looking forward to doing again. As a matter of fact he had been rather hoping to avoid it ever happening again. Needs must, however.

The zombie grinned, a grotesque and exaggerated mockery of pleasure, as Molly and John approached it. Molly held out her free hand, fingers splayed wide, pushing her Chi at it in gentle but relentless waves, washing away the will imposed on the puppet by its master.

It ground to a halt, its milky yellow eyes going even more unfocused and dull. It swayed back and forth against the chain that held it anchored to the dumpster. Molly and John took another step closer. And then another. Pressing their will against the briefly unmoored puppet. Sweat broke out on their brows, a slight tremor began in Molly's fingers as she reached for its clammy skin.

Her control slipped for perhaps a fraction of a second and it lashed at her, teeth sinking deep in her wrist, broken nails clawing at John's neck, at Molly's hip, her blood poured over its grimy teeth as they tore past skin and ligaments and tendons into her artery. She screamed helpless and terrified, totally unable to gather her wits in the moment as the bulging empty eyes looked up into hers.

“Molly!” Lestrade yelled, drawing his weapon and firing at the Raised's head. The first shot ricocheted off the dumpster and the second dug in its shoulder as Sherlock tore at his hair, internally rapid-fire debating what damage it might do to John to tear him away from the inevitable slaughter and break his connection with the Necromancer.

John had said it was dangerous, extremely dangerous, this kind of connection. Breaking it so suddenly, so violently, what would that do to John? Would he survive it? Would he forgive Sherlock if he did? Would Molly be dead and John irreparably damaged all because Sherlock couldn't-

Molly snapped out of her momentary shock, pulling on all of her reserves and the energy John was desperately pushing at her, drawing it into her arm and pushing it at the thing all at once, cutting all the strings that tied it to the other Necromancer's will.

The thick fog of its ill intent lingered, tainting everything it touched and latching on to it like a stain that sunk under the physical skin and made it something sickly and weighted. But that wasn't Molly's problem just then. As the corpse collapsed back into little more than a pile of rotting meat, she also collapsed back into John's arms with a soft exhale, like she'd been gently surprised.

Lestrade was on them in an instant, kicking the corpse's bloody mouth away from the gnarled mess of Molly's wrist rather violently. And then again for good measure. And then once more with a rather staggering expletive.

Leather gloved hands were cradling John's skull, which felt like it was cracking into pieces and floating away from him, ony knees pressing in under his shoulder blades. If he concentrated he could distantly hear someone calling his name. But his whole body was a raw nerve and he only had the most tenuous amount of control over the tattered remains of his strength.

John lathed the last of his energy over the bite, inelegantly urging the worst of the damage to mend before the dancing black dots on the edge of his vision swarmed and coalesced and pulled him under.

Sherlock bit at the fingers of his glove, yanking it off with his teeth so he could feel for John's pulse as he cradled him with his entire body, using the position to block out Lestrade and the corpse as he called his colleague's name.

Lestrade was screaming something about paramedics and ambulances and airlifting, drowning out Sherlock's muted urging for John to wake up, for John to be okay. There was nothing he could do for Molly. She was compromised in a way that Sherlock couldn't do anything about. But John, _his_ John, who shot cabbies and made toast and sucked Incubi for him, there must be something he could do.

John's arm started shaking and for a second Sherlock was terrified that it was something wrong with the Healer but when he looked down at the source of the motion he saw that the John's fingers were still locked in a death grip around Molly's hand and it was her body that was jumping and thrashing erratically.

Molly was having a seizure.

Blindly, still looking at Molly's bloody convulsing body, Sherlock groped for John's hand, prying at uncooperative fingers numbly away from Molly's spasming arm. Specks of vomit began flying from Molly's mouth as she shook and jerked. Sherlock scooped John's limbs in, cradling him like a child and pulling them both back toward the brick wall.

People were swarming in, uniformed officers and emergency medical personnel, all deferring to Lestrade's vociferous directions and kneeling by Molly as her body abruptly stilled.

The paramedics were on her immediately. There were checking vitals and communicating in grunts and abbreviated jargon the way true partners always seem to be able to do. The way Sherlock and John could if John would just wake up. Which he would, of course he would. It wasn't a coma, after all. It wasn't. He wouldn't lose them both.

Sherlock rocked John back and forth in his arms unconsciously as they tipped Molly on her side and she vomited all over their shoes. A third responder raced through the black plastic with a stretcher. Something smooth, hard, and cold hit Sherlock's hip and rolled into the brick wall with a single chiming clink.

Sherlock blinked, rewinding everything in his mind until it dawned on him. The wine bottle, the message.

“Fuck the backboard!” Lestrade was screaming. “She didn't hurt her spine, she didn't hit her head just get her in the sodding ambulance!” An officer put a hand on his shoulder and Lestrade smacked it away. “Sorry,” the DI said immediately. “Sorry.” He covered his face with his hands but the officer didn't attempt to touch him again.

Sherlock reached behind him, slid the paper out of the bottle and stuffed it in his pocket in one quick motion. No one paid him the least bit of attention.

The paramedics hefted Molly's body onto the stretcher, rushing her out of the alley without a backwards glance.

Very suddenly it was much too quiet in the alley.

Lestrade's steel eyes snapped to John, “Is he,” Lestrade's voice broke and he cleared his throat. “Is he-”

“He's fine,” Sherlock snapped, clutching John closer to him. A paramedic darted through the black plastic and took a step toward them, looking concerned and professionally assessing at the same time. “Fuck off!” Sherlock yelled. “He's perfectly fine! Just leave him alone.”

“Sherlock, he needs help. You can't be selfish about this. You need to let these people get him some proper medical treatment. If you care about him at all you'll help them get him to a proper hospital.” Lestrade was desperate, too keyed up to demonstrate much more patience, even for Sherlock.

The detective knew that if he didn't let them take John, Lestrade would have him restrained. John would be taken by force and Sherlock wouldn't be allowed to follow.

Obviously it was only logical to assist them in getting John on the stretcher and to the hospital comfortably. He wouldn't want a lot of fuss made over him and he was likely to be quite cross if he found out that Sherlock had caused a scene and yelled at people. He was always telling Sherlock to be nice, to cooperate with the Met.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, feeling oddly as if he were being strangled again. “Yes, take him then, if you insist. Obvious. Yes. Just don't come running to me when he wakes up and makes you all realise what useless fools you've been, admitting a Healer to a hospital.”

A distant clinical portion of Sherlock's mind told him he was being hysterical. The worried look on Lestrade's face was further evidence in support of this theory. It did not matter though, there was an investigation underway. What kind of a detective leaves a case unsolved? What kind of friend would let the monster who did this get away?

The medical professionals took John away from him with a wary gentleness, as if they expected Sherlock to snap at them or stab them once they came close. The fact that stabbing them had actually crossed his mind made ignoring that particular slight somewhat easier.

Sherlock stood despite his creaking joints and followed John's stretcher to the ambulance, climbing in and taking a seat uninvited. The larger part of his mind was focused on reviewing his mental map of London, adding what information he could gather from this newest incident to the case file in his mind palace. He stared long and hard at the more complete picture it formed while trying to guess at what the other pieces might be.

He answered questions about John's allergies, age and medical history without being entirely aware that he was doing so. John would be just fine. John could keep. He wasn't like Molly who was probably already being prepped for surgery. The case needed him. He needed to focus on the case.

The note in his pocket was heavier than it should have been but he'd have to let it wait until he was alone to examine it. He should have stayed with the corpse. It was inanimate now and a more thorough and comprehensive examination could be done. It was probably being contaminated by Anderson's temporary but equally incompetent replacement while Sherlock was trapped in this godforsakenly slow ambulance.

Stupid mistake, to leave the scene when there was still evidence to be collected.

He hoped they at least knew enough to send it to Bart's when they were done, but probably not.

He checked to see if John was awake yet, the compulsion to look just as strong as any alcoholic passing a liquor shop. God, but how he wanted to take that metaphorical brick and smash his way into John's mind. If he were Gifted he would be able. He could see John's Chi then. Oh, the things he would deduce from _that_.

He wondered if any of the Healers at the hospital would try. The realisation that he knew absolutely nothing about how the Gifted were treated medically startled a short low whine out of him. How could he ever have thought that information irrelevant when now John could be-

No. Redact. Rewind. The case. The dead teenage runaway sex worker must have had a name. He would need to look through missing person’s reports, take samples from the body, run tests to sort out trace elements and chemicals and deduce the area where he grew up. Narrow down the field.

As soon as John woke up they would go to the lab and get to work. Though John might want an update on Molly's condition. Sentiment. Everyone grows fond of Molly given enough time. Sherlock sent off a text asking after her. John would want to know, would demand the information before they got back to work.

They arrived at the hospital and Sherlock stayed obediently in place as the paramedics scrambled to get their cargo into more knowledgeable hands. One of them put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and urged him through the halls towards triage. There was another of those hideous orange blankets wrapped around him.

When had that happened? Why was he being triaged? Sherlock flung the blanket at the paramedic's face, turned on his heel and walked away from the Thai nurse with the long nails.

Where was John? What were they doing with him? He knew he couldn't be with John now but he wanted to watch, to observe. He didn't trust anyone else to care for him properly.

He texted Mycroft again as the nurse called after him. Sherlock didn't have time to handle this- evidence was eroding at the crime scene, on the body. If he wanted to catch the cowardly little fuck that did this he'd have to go now.

Mycroft would make sure John knew where Sherlock had gone as soon as he woke up. He'd be cross about being left behind, but surely he would understand. After all, it wasn't like Sherlock was going anywhere dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Molly, I know. Poor John, poor Sherlock, wondering around London in shock. 
> 
> What will become of them all?
> 
> No one is safe.
> 
> Hope you guys liked it :) Let me know what you think!  
> As ever, comments, kudos, suggestions, and requests are welcome!


	11. Tonight I'm Reaching Out to the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where the men we love are lost without each other and no one is thinking very clearly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.
> 
> This chapter took a long time and I really struggled with it. I did some massive hours of research to establish a few principles of this world in a way that I felt would do justice to my sources of inspiration. That being said, this is a magical realism AU and not everything is terribly authentic or 100 % accurate.
> 
> I know absolutely nothing about the British hospital system. I tried to research things but in the end I made most of it up based on my experience with the American hospital system. If you notice any errors please feel free to let me know. 
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'ed
> 
> All mistakes are mine.

The long dirty scrapes along his neck and hands slowly sealed and receded.

When John woke up he woke up swinging.

“Molly?! Where's Sherlock?! Where is she? Where am I? What's going on?”

“That will _do_ Doctor Watson.” Mycroft said with a judicious little tap of his umbrella. The voice made John freeze immediately. Mycroft was sat in a chair much nicer than the typical hospital fare (John wouldn't have been surprised to find it had been appropriated from an administrator's office somewhere in the building).

The thin hospital robe hanging off of his right shoulder suddenly made John feel extremely exposed.

“You're excused,” Mycroft said off-handedly to the medical staff in attendance. The two nurses looked at each other askance but the attending physician simply put her head down and turned to leave. They passed two large men at the door who wore suits that cost hundreds of pounds. The perfectly tailored jackets hid well made guns, but not from John.

“Mycroft,” John said, his tone warning. Mycroft spared the man one of his sour milk smiles.

“Do relax John. I'm just here for one of our charming little chats. You see, I was concerned that our last one didn't stick once I'd heard that you nearly got my brother eaten alive by an undead underage whore.”

John must have flinched because Mycroft definitely looked like he had scored a hit. John made a conscious effort to strengthen his spine and square his shoulders.

“That wasn't my fault and you know it. That wasn't anyone's fault but the Necromancer who commanded it.”

“I'd hate to resort to tawdry name-calling at this juncture John, but surely you can see that the devil-touched parasite that poses the greatest threat to my brother is not some nameless Necromancer out to cause a bit of a panic in London. No, no, others of his ilk have tried that before and sooner or later this one will face the same fate as all those that came before him.” Mycroft paused here and looked John in the eyes. “Public execution.”

John drew a furious breath but Mycroft simply overrode him before he could speak. The last public execution hadn’t been for nearly 150 years, and then it was the charge of treason that had been levied against the Gifted in question. For the simple crime of trying to speak out about Gifted persecution. To compare that woman, so unjustly killed, with the man who was now Raising people’s corpses, killing and inciting chaos was vulgar.

“It's always the threat closer to home which must be watched most closely. And of course there is the fact that Sherlock entrusted you to my care when he left you here.” It was said offhandedly, as if this were of no consequence at all, but Mycroft's eyes were slitted with snake-like pleasure as John's heart monitor betrayed his distress in a way he would not allow his face to do.

John was disadvantaged in every way by this conversation. It was obvious why Mycroft had chosen here and now to make his impression.

“You must have heard on the news that St. Bartholomew's has just started a pilot program. They hired four Healers to act as doctors. Unsupervised, I might add. Appalling. Now of course, in the military certain allowances are made. War makes her demands and we must answer. It is not sort of venue appropriate for expressing one's distaste. Healers are an advantage on the battlefield. I would be a fool not to concede as much.”

John took a deep breath and eyed the two men at the door. He didn't know if he could take them with the condition he was in but he wasn't going to sit here and listen to the pompous git's circular drivel much longer.

“There's no reason you can't go back,” Mycroft said gently.

John's attention snapped back to the deceptively dangerous bureaucrat.

“I'm currently the only thing standing between you and redeployment John. Unless you do exactly as I say regarding my brother you'll wake up one morning and realise you're in Afghanistan again. Sherlock will find a note detailing your desire to return to active duty and terminate your friendship with him. You will not see, hear from or speak to him again. You will not die on or be buried in British soil.”

John couldn't speak for several seconds but when he found his voice again all he could say was, “My God but you're a bastard.” John had missed the war, it was true. It was the one time in his life that he felt something like quality or usefulness. But to leave Sherlock like that, to have that choice--to have even the ghost of choice--taken away from him, turned that dream into a nightmare.

“Let's start with something easy, hmm? Let you break in your new leash comfortably. Tonight you'll find my brother, take him back to 221B and ensure that he gets a full eight hours of sleep, using your abilities if necessary but doing him no harm. I look forward to observing your good results John.”

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the ground again and stood to leave. He walked halfway to the door before he stopped and turned back to the frustrated and infuriated John.

“I do hope it goes without saying that if any of your actions, or failures to act, affect Sherlock in a negative fashion I will have you neutered. Manual Gift Suppression is, I believe, the term. Imagine waking up in a war and being absolutely unable to save your comrades. Ghastly. Wasteful. Please do not doubt that I would do this John. Soldiers are a dime a dozen. A Holmes is invaluable.”

Mycroft's scowling bodyguards followed him out. John took a deep breath and tried to compose himself as best he could. At least Mycroft felt threatened enough to bring two armed guards with him in the middle of London, which was presumably his territory. John savored that thought with a bitter sense of satisfaction.

He was not Mycroft's chained dog and he wouldn't be treated like a slave. Not by that man and not by anyone. The situation was untenable, but not his top priority.

He couldn't be sure what he had done for Molly before he passed out, or even if he was strong enough to do anything now, but he had to find her, see how she was doing, and make the offer.

...

Sherlock slowly began to that realise it was cold out. The sun had already set but it wasn't quite dark out. He buttoned up his coat and stopped under a streetlight to check his phone. Thirteen new messages. He didn't concentrate too hard on why he was terrified to open any of them.

He had gone to the lab at Bart's, picked the lock with no Molly around to let him in. He'd examined the corpse very briefly, but he felt sick just looking at the thing. How could he work like that? He'd never been squeamish about the dead. Even as a child at his grandfather's funeral the corpse held more interest than revulsion for him. He'd never felt this before.

He took samples, he took mental pictures, reviewed the file, but he didn't think he'd been able to keep himself in the lab for more than an hour. His attention to detail had stopped producing new information for him to deduce from after the first minute or so.

There was one long black hair caught in the button of its jacket, likely female, DNA impossible to retrieve. The soil beneath his fingernails was rich in minerals and heavy metals. Traces of an exceedingly common weed and a second, unidentified, plant. A veritable wealth of information on the bottom of the boys shoes. Sherlock, so off kilter and disconnected, couldn't tell what any of that meant.

For fuck’s sake, just last week he'd looked at a potential client’s shoes and known he had walked through Regents Park to see his mistress!

Sherlock felt oddly as if someone had pulled out the plug. No more sound. No more smell or taste. No more deductions. He didn't even really care.

“What you standing there looking lost for? Come on inside you foolish boy.” Her accent was strange- Sherlock couldn't quite place it. The woman was glaring at him from the doorway of her shop.

She was short and wrinkled and dark skinned with a bearing as regal and welcoming as any matriarch. Her hair was several shades lighter than her skin, twisted into dozens of small braids and drawn up into one practical bun at the back of her head. She wore a loose white dress that brushed the top of her white orthopedic shoes.

Her hands looked soft, scarred and calloused though Sherlock knew they were. It took him a moment to realise that he had been staring at them where they were fisted at her hips.

She shook her head and stepped aside, pointing inside the shop and giving him the sort of look Sherlock was used to seeing from him mother when she suspected that he'd done something wrong. And from John, when he demanded Sherlock apologise.

“In,” she said pointing. And Sherlock went.

...

John pulled out his IV, ripped away the wires and sensors the hooked him up the the heart monitor and slid out of bed. 

No one tried to stop him as he wandered the halls, looking for someone suitable to ask about Molly's condition and room number. John was beginning the transition from perplexed to truly concerned until he saw a young nurse step toward him inquiringly only to flick her eyes down to his wrist and then immediately turn in a completely different direction.

John was about to call out after her that she'd just walked into a supply closet when it clicked. He looked down at his wrist. The bright orange admission bracelet that marked him as Gifted.

With a sigh John started tearing at it with his teeth. The thick plastic was frustratingly reluctant to give so he hid it behind his back and “bumped” into a passing paramedic and lifted a pair of scissors.

One quick snip later and John was finally pointed in the right direction to the receptionist’s desk.

A few smiles and some light flirting later and he was well on his way.

...

“Greg!” John called, surprised to see the detective inspector standing outside Molly's room and looking in on her. His arms were crossed as he turned to scowl at John.

“I thought you'd be at work? The investigation- no, never mind that, how's Molly?”

“Get out of my fucking sight Dr. Watson. I swear to God. I know it's not fair, I know that, but if I look at you a minute longer I'll punch you in the fucking face.”

“Greg-” John was shocked, hurt. He had considered this man a friend for years.

“It's your fault she's in there,” Lestrade said, his hands balling into fists. “You're a fucking Healer for Christ's sake. You were supposed to keep her safe and you made that thing fucking attack her. Whatever you did, messing about with her Chi, it fucked it all up and you didn't even bother to fucking fix the damage!” Lestrade pushed him and John stumbled back, let it happen.

“What fucking good are you then? What fucking good are you people if she'll never be able to use her fucking hand again? You broke them both you useless fucking twat! I stood up for you and look what you've done now!” Lestrade had taken John by his hospital gown and began shaking him. Lestrade took a deep breath, painstakingly forced his hands to unclench and took a step back. “Get out of here John. Just go.”

John raised his chin, shoulders rigid, turned on his heel and limped from the hospital. It was only when his naked toes touched concrete that he realised that he was still clad in only the thin hospital gown and boxers and the sun had set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you guys liked it!
> 
> I put a lot of effort into this chapter (and the next one, which is still coming together) and I'm really nervous about it because some of the subjects and institutions I touch on are not ones I have a wealth of personal experience with. 
> 
> Anyway, comments, kudos, suggestions, and reviews are always welcome.
> 
> Until next time my dears.


	12. You've Got the World on its Knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John searches for his Sherlock. The Detective does something stupid. And what the fuck is Mycroft up to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A giant thank you to everyone that commented and left kudos! 
> 
> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

Sherlock swayed on his feet, observing his surroundings with little of his usual acuity. He slipped one hand in his coat pocket and ran one long finger over the rolled-up message absently. What little he'd seen of it in the lab held great and intriguing promise. It would probably take him days to decode and deduce completely. _What would John think of it?_ Sherlock wondered as his eyes scanned the shop again. _What **will** he think._ Sherlock automatically corrected himself.

“Do you like my place?” The woman asked, slipping behind a counter to fiddle with the kettle.

The store was stuffy, claustrophobic compared to the vastness of London on the verge of night. It was packed with books, with shelves that held potted plants, elegant, if secondhand, furniture, displays full of candles and incense of all colours, statues and polished stones, little faceless cord dolls packed together on a shelf like children waiting to be told a story. There were little tables and chairs, a scarred counter with a register and a display of homemade baked goods next to a coffee machine.

He realised absently that he had no idea what this place was. What did the woman sell? Books? Food? Drink? Nothing really made sense. Sherlock wondered if he might be better off roaming the streets of London. At least that didn't require any of this painful effort. There were places he could go...

A warm mug was forced in his hands.

“Drink this,” She told him, patting his hand the way Mrs. Hudson sometimes did, meeting his eyes with a strange intensity that made him want to please her.

He brought the cup up to his mouth without thought and took a long drink of the soothing liquid.

“That's it,” she said encouragingly as he finished off the cup. She took it from his pliant fingers before he could let it fall. He pressed a hand to his temple, panting. He pulled at his scarf, too warm, swimming in the thick air of the shop. Something wasn't right. He staggered away from her as she watched him with a fond little smile. He fell back on an old couch that was nestled between two bookshelves.

“Who are you?” he demanded, reaching out like that could keep the situation under control, fighting the fatigue.

“I'm a Mambo, darling,” She told him, soothing a hand over his brow. He fought to keep his eyes open, to get up, but it was useless. “Foolish boy,” she tutted to herself. “You won't make this easy, will you?”

Sherlock's last thought before the cloying blackness drew him under was that he might not get to show John the message after all.

...

_Right,_ John Watson thought to himself, clutching his arms around his middle for an added bit of warmth and protection. It went without saying that there was no way he could go back in that hospital.

Even if Mycroft's people had been kind enough to leave his belongings somewhere safe for John to retrieve, none of the staff would be jumping up to help him. Word had probably already gotten around that there was a rouge blond Healer on the loose. He hadn't exactly signed out. Best to just leave it for now.

He was a practical man. He had invaded Afghanistan. He could handle this.

First he needed to find cover from the elements. He would focus on that first and sort the rest out one thing at a time. Easy peasy.

There was a Chinese takeaway place across the lifeless street that he'd been to before. He limped across to it, thankful that the area wasn't busy at this time of day. He couldn't bear for anyone to inadvertently recognize him when he was like this.

The Chinese place was cramped, smelled pungent in a way that made John's empty stomach twist, and was manned by two elderly owners that yelled at him in Cantonese as he shuffled across the tiny seating area and locked himself in their single occupancy bathroom.

John took a deep breath and stared hard at his crumpled face in the streaky mirror. God, but he was getting old. And tired. His shoulder ached, his leg throbbed, he felt like something might break or dislocate if he moved too quickly the wrong way. His left hand trembled where it gripped the sink.

He was so weak. Healers were never meant to be this run down. He drew harsh tumbling little breaths in through his nose, couldn't for the life of him think what else to do. The pain, the limp, they were indicators of his Gift Suppression. He felt suddenly dizzy, tried to grip the sink tighter so he could remain upright, but his fingers were tingling unpleasantly and he staggered, hitting the wall with his bad shoulder and sliding down.

How many times would he have to wake up in hospital with the stench of a Raised still lingering in his nose and a beloved friend.... John wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forth in an effort to calm down. His heart was beating painfully, too quick, tachycardia, not good.

_This isn't Afghanistan _, he tried to remind himself, _it isn't Bill, isn't... I won't go back to..._ But how could he help anyone, much less himself, if he were that powerless pathetic creature Mycroft Holmes had pitied? He couldn't go back to that life, he couldn't.__

__His eye caught the broken shards of the Vodka bottle in the bin with a glint of tainted fluorescent light._ _

__Before his mind could catch up with his body he'd crawled over, fished out a jagged, roughly triangular, piece and was slicing down his right palm with it. His mind clung onto it's shaky mantra- _I will Heal. It will Heal. I am not Gift Suppressed. Not broken. Useful._ He stared at the wound for several long seconds, feeling more and more untethered to reality as the blood crawled down his arm and dripped off his elbow to the grimy lavatory grout._ _

__Finally it began to sluggishly close in on itself, knitting back together almost reluctantly. Before it had closed he cut another stripe parallel to it, then another. It had to close. They all had to close. He had to know he was whole- that he wasn't weak or powerless, that he wouldn't have to watch any more of his friends die while he sat impotently by. He had been exactly what they needed but he hadn't been working properly. He hadn't been functioning and it was those he cared for, those whom he had sworn to protect, that had paid the price. How many more people would have to die, be maimed, staring at a Healer who couldn't even Heal them?_ _

__“And none to drink,” he murmured hysterically, tearing the jagged glass down the vulnerable flesh of his inner arm and letting the flash of pain clear his mind. The cut was Healing, little flakes of glass being pushed to the surface as it did, setting like cheap gems in the drying rivulets of blood._ _

__John took a long deep breath and reminded himself that he was in control. He was useful. Whatever problems lay ahead on his path to fixing things with Molly and Greg and Sherlock, he could handle them as long as he had his Gift. Though his hand was still shaking he set the glass down._ _

__He gripped the sink and pulled himself back up to his feet, concentrating on just breathing in and out. In and out. John splashed some water on his face and then rubbed at the drying blood with a soggy paper towel from the half-broken dispenser. Everything was fine. Everything would be okay. He was stronger than this. Bill- Sherlock needed him to be stronger than this. He couldn't let Sherlock turn into Bill, couldn't allow that to happen again. He'd already wasted enough time, Sherlock was still out there somewhere, probably getting himself into even worse trouble, God help them all. John had to find him._ _

__John squared his shoulders, unlocked the door and allowed himself to be chased from the restaurant by an angry Asian grandmother brandishing a broom._ _

__He popped into the first laundromat he saw. The proprietor was an extremely overweight man who looked up from his copy of Architecture Today, shook his head with a slightly pained look on his face and did his best to ignore John from then on out._ _

__John randomly pulled open the first running dryer he walked past and pulled out a pair of jeans a size too small for him and a black shirt two sizes too big. John smiled at the proprietor who smiled back as he dialed the police, and watched John walk calmly from the store._ _

__Once he was sure the man behind the counter couldn't see him John hopped a fence, jogged through a back alley, scaled a ladder to the roof of an older apartment building, jumped the two foot gap to the building on the other side, climbed down that ladder, dodged behind a dumpster to change into his new clothes and then ran and kept on running. He felt momentary flashes of pain when his feet would be cut on a stray bit of glass or metal but so long as he didn't stop and let his brain catch up he Healed himself before his foot touched the pavement again. So John ran, certain somehow that he knew the way._ _

__..._ _

__Lestrade soothed his hand over Molly's brow. She reminded him so much of his daughters when she was asleep like this. The only thing out of place was the slightly pained look on her face, even in a chemically induced coma, and the thick bandaging around her wrist. Lestrade swallowed thickly and looked away from it, feeling sick._ _

__Things like this weren't supposed to happen to Molly. Sweet little Molly who was always so willing to help, no matter what the risk to herself. She didn't deserve this._ _

__Lestrade heard the door open behind him but he paid it no mind. Another in a sea of doctors and nurses most likely. None of them said much about Molly's condition but the look on their faces was enough. Lestrade had been the bearer of bad news one time too many in his career to delude himself about what that meant for her chances. He didn't want to see that expression again._ _

__Which is why it caught him by surprise when he heard that annoyingly familiar voice say, “Are you sure this is where you wish to be just now Gregory?”_ _

__“Mycroft,” Lestrade said, feeling the muscles along his spine stiffen and refusing to turn around._ _

__“I know you care a great deal for Ms. Hooper but there's nothing you can do for her in here.”_ _

__“I'm her emergency medical contact. I'm her proxy. I'm supposed to be making decisions on her behalf. Which was news to me. She doesn't even have any family, not a proper one that loves her. We still get those cases, you know. Cases where parents throw out Necromancer babies. Just toss them in a skip like a sack of rotten apples. She doesn't have anyone else and I'm not leaving her.” Lestrade gripped Molly's hand tightly. He'd never particularly wanted a sister, but he could see the appeal now. He hadn't particularly wanted kids before he had them either. Couldn't imagine his life differently now._ _

__Mycroft stood next to him, put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “This may be difficult to believe but I do understand how you feel. My brother is, at best, a difficult man to care for. It took me many years and several hard learned lessons to accept that sometimes I need to step back and allow others to care for him in my stead. It was incredibly difficult for me to accept what was best for Sherlock then. Just as I know it's hard for you to accept what's best for Molly now. I understand you haven't been letting any of the Healers on staff near her, despite the worryingly aggressive infection and the severity of the physical damage.”_ _

__“Don't you dare turn this around like it's my fault, alright? I'm doing everything I can for her, including keeping those fuckers away from her. You think I'm gonna trust them after what happened? No. Never again. There's no way on god's green earth I'm ever putting her safety in Gifted hands again.”_ _

__“ I understand without Healer intervention she will likely never regain use of it. Amputation may even become a necessity if the infection proves to be too resilient for less extreme methods.”_ _

__“You think I want that?” Lestrade whispered accusingly. Mycroft was quite aware what thin ice he was treading on._ _

__“I know you would never put Molly in any kind of danger. Not intentionally. You want the best for her. Which is why you're going to let the Healers here do their job- under supervision of course. In the proper environment with the proper guidance the Gifted can be an amazing asset Gregory. I'm not suggesting we just hand her over to their care blindly, obviously. Just as proper doctors must face malpractice for their mistakes, malicious or otherwise, so must Healers face consequences for failing to do their duty to the standards which are expected of them._ _

__“You of all people know that firearms are not necessarily a bad thing, as long as they are regulated and controlled by qualified professionals. Like guns, the Gifted are not necessarily detrimental to society, they are merely dangerous when they are uncontrolled. We have no need to fear them. Many of them serve us admirably, like Ms. Hooper. So loyal and quiet and giving. All the Gifted should be given the chance to serve society. To make something better of themselves. Do you understand?”_ _

__“I-” Lestrade hesitated. On some levels what Mycroft was saying made perfect sense. A part of him wholeheartedly agreed, may have even wanted to applaud. But another part was insisting that something didn't quite feel right._ _

__“I will personally oversee Ms. Hooper's treatment. No harm will come to her while she is under my care. Go home and sleep Gregory. The inquiry, being kicked off such a personal case after that kind of trauma, these things have taken their toll, above and beyond the emotional torment of watching over Ms. Hooper._ _

__“I'll have you reinstated on the case in the morning. You and my brother and the full might of New Scotland Yard will hunt down this devil-born scum and make him rue the day he allowed any harm to come to Ms. Hooper. You can avenge her, keep her safe from this ever happening again. There's no need for you to fight this alone.” Mycroft rubbed Lestrade's back a bit awkwardly and he was suddenly overcome by a crashing wave of relief. There was no one better to have on his side than Mycroft Holmes. All he had to do was let the man do what he did best; handle a delicate situation and bring it to the most favorable outcome._ _

__“I suppose you're right,” Lestrade mumbled. God, he was tired._ _

__“Of course,” Mycroft said gently. “I assure you that at the first sign of a change I will personally contact you. There's nothing for you to worry about. Go home and let me watch over her for a while.”_ _

__“Okay,” Lestrade said, grateful beyond all measure that Mycroft was there. It might rankle to leave her now but Greg was nothing if not a practical man. She was in the best possible hands and he was running on fumes as it was. He would best serve her by getting some rest and letting Mycroft help._ _

__He didn't see the way Mycroft smiled as he left. If he did, he probably would have stayed._ _

__..._ _

__“I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it,” the Mambo said, looking up from her tea. She was seated in deep blue wooden chair right next to the couch. One hand was resting lightly on Sherlock's wrist where it was crossed over his chest. She might have been checking his pulse but John didn't think that was the case._ _

__Heaving for breath in the doorway, feet crusted over with blood, and shaking from exertion and chill, there was little he could do at the moment._ _

__He had no idea what brought him to this place or who the woman before him was but he did know one thing._ _

__“If you hurt him I will kill you,” he gasped, trying to bring as much of the Captain into his voice as possible while drawing on the tired remains of his Chi in preparation for a fight._ _

__“Come inside before someone sees you. Sit down, rest your weary bones. Have a drink,” the woman smiled, revealing bright white teeth and a dark sense of humor._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to check out my tumblr- heartofthemirror dot tumblr dot com- I will try to post updates and previews about how things are going.
> 
> Also, I've set the goal of finishing my first Sherlock story American Witches Do It Better by Halloween so that might also slow updates a bit. I will do my best to still keep chugging though! 
> 
> Comments, kudos, reviews, critiques and suggestions always welcome! <3


	13. Poor Unfortunate Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is a Mambo and why did this one kidnap a consulting detective?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm very excited about this chapter. I did massive amounts of research and planning on this one and then I spent a few days refining it to try and make sure it flowed despite all the information I had to pack in. I hope it doesn't end up being to boring or talk-y. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Everything I know about voodoo, Haitian culture and language, came from the interwebs (multiple sources) and a French textbook. I've done the best I can to accurately and authentically describe everything. I'm sure I've made mistakes despite this. Please feel free to message me if you notice (a) mistake(s) so that I can go about correcting them! 
> 
> Song title is of course, form the classic song "Poor Unfortunate Souls" from the Little mermaid.
> 
> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

“Get your hand off him,” John said in a quiet voice made of steel.

“You assume I'd do him some harm. Do you know what a Mambo is? What she does?” John stalked forward cautiously, his hands on the place where her skin met Sherlock's.

“I don't know and frankly I don't give a shit.”

“A Mambo is a high priestess nan Vaudou. A lot like a Healer, but for a community. We take care of people, help them, guide them, communicate with the loa, the spirits, for them.”

“Sherlock isn't one of yours. Let him go.”

“You aren't listening. I'm not doing this for your detective, you fool. I'm doing this for you, for all of the Gifted. The longer this Necromancer goes unchallenged, the more people begin to fear us again and the worse things get for all the Gifted. I cannot allow this to continue, for the sake of us all.”

“So you thought you'd kidnap the one man who's capable of putting a stop to it?” John was furious, an arm’s length away from her now and his palms itching for contact. He couldn't think past where her fingers were pressed against Sherlock's.

“I saw him outside, all lost and confused like a little stray puppy and I thought to myself, 'Mama Laurette, that's that poor boy who jumped off a building because he was a liar. That's that poor boy all the whispers say came back to life using sanp nwa, black magic. His picture was in the paper just the other day- name cleared it said but this doesn't look like a man in the clear to me.' So I thought to myself, 'Mama Laurette if you don't help guide that wayward idiot to his proper path all hell is bound to break loose for sure.' So I invited the poor child in an gave him a little something to help him calm down. I knew you'd be along to take care of him and I knew it was you I needed to talk to.”

John stilled, eying her carefully for several seconds. She met his gaze blandly as if waiting for someone terribly slow to catch up.

“How did you make him drink it?” John asked. Mama Laurette wiggled her fingers at him playfully.

“Just a little push darling. So gentle he didn't even notice. Most people don't.”

“You're a Siren,” John accused.

“I'm many things, but that is not the point. I have no interest in lying to you or using my Gifts on you. All I want to do is help you and your detective find the truth, John. You must believe me. I only want to end this madness.” The doctor took a deep breath, considering her. She sounded so solemn, but she was a Siren. She could sound however she pleased.

“If you move away from him I'll sit here with you and let you tell me whatever you like. I'm particularly keen to hear about those rumors you mentioned. Just please, let him go.”

“I'll just go make you a little drink to help wake you up, ti cheri,” Mama Laurette said, rising in a movement that was quite spry for a woman of her age and slipping behind the counter. “You ought to know I wouldn't have hurt him. That's not who I am.” John was on his knees by Sherlock's side in a second, hardly paying attention to the Mambo. He laid one hand reverently over his friend's heart chakra and let the other touch the cool skin of his long fingers.

He let out a heavy breath, feeling a hundred pounds lift off his shoulders. Sherlock was fine. Getting some much needed rest. His aura was a bit muddled, vibrating a bit when it should be a low gentle hum, but that wasn't too out of place for someone as manic as Sherlock got when he was on a case. It was nothing John couldn't fix later.

He smoothed his hand over Sherlock's brow and just barely kept himself from pouring the last vestiges of his chi over his agitated patient. It was no secret that often the hardest lesson a Healer had to learn was when to stop. John had learned that the hard way in Afghanistan and he wasn't anxious for a refresher.

He kept his hand on Sherlock's all the same and pulled the Mambo's chair closer. It didn't even cross his mind that it was rude, stealing her seat in her own store, he was just anxious that absolutely no one should come near his friend in such a vulnerable state.

“How did you get me here?” He asked absently as the thought suddenly struck him.

“I didn't,” Mama Laurette called over her shoulder. “You followed his lavi enèji back to him all by yourself. I just had a feeling you would.”

“What do you mean I followed his lavie enay- what do you mean?” John asked, accepting the drink she handed him but keeping it pointedly away from his mouth. She sat down across him him with her own drink and a fond smile.

“The people we love deeply, we keep a little bit of them close to us always,” she tapped her chest. “Just a piece of their chi, as you English call it, nestled inside our auras like a pearl in an oyster. Chi is like water, always wanting to be reunited with it's source. If you have the talent to feel it it will pull you right on to the one you've lost. This is how we can always find our way home.”

“I've heard of that, I think, at university. They called it Tethering but I thought it was just a myth. I mean, I've never met anyone who could actually do it before.” John's thumb absently rubbed a circle on Sherlock's hand. The Mambo took a drink to hide her smile.

“You still have much to learn about yourself ti cheri,” she told him kindly. “Your people are capable of so much more than you know.” John was tempted to ask what sorts of things, he really was, but something she had said earlier was still nagging at him.

“The rumours about Sherlock, what have you heard?” John asked.

“First you drink,” Mama Laurette said. “You're bound to collapse where you sit if you don't refresh your chi soon. The drink will strengthen you, help you focus. I promise my darling, that's all it is.” Even knowing she was a Siren couldn't stop John from believing her. He took one tentative sip and then a longer gulp. It was some kind of fruity tea, which he normally abhorred, but there was something about it he just couldn't get enough of. The Mambo smiled.

“My people they tell me a great many things, things they would never normally reveal to an outsider or even to each other. In vaudou one of the greatest crimes is raising the dead. The dead are meant to be at rest, at peace in Baron Samedi's realm. To make them walk the earth as a slave forever is the most cruel and barbaric form of torture.

“What many people don't realise is that there is more than one kind of zonbi. It is difficult, dangerous, but one with the talent and the knowledge may make a zonbi out of one who still lives. The Bokor, the sorcerer, would have to take half of the victim's soul into them and to protect it, nourish it and keep it safe for as long as he lives. In return the zonbi will have great strength and skill, will become successful and be difficult to kill.

“But of course every bargain has its price. When the Bokor that struck the deal dies, what remains of the zonbi's soul will be unable to resist following. The soul must be reunited with it's other half. The zonbi will die and be cursed in its grave for the greed and the hubris of agreeing to such a bargain.

“You can imagine what my people thought when your detective came back from his 'death'. They say he bartered his soul to this Necromancer. They say he has done something to anger the one who now houses his soul and that the bodies are a warning, an act of revenge for his disobedience. Some people think it would just be easiest to appease the Necromancer by reuniting both halves of the detective's soul. They think his death would bring an end to these unholy terrors.”

“Do you believe this?” John asked carefully, setting his drink down and eying the woman. No matter what she said about wanting to help them there was a part of him that didn't fully trust her. He could sense that she was extremely powerful and it put him on edge. John didn't often meet a Gifted that he didn't think he could take on if he had to. Especially not over the unconscious body of someone he cared a great deal for.

“Fuck no,” she said easily. John's eyebrows shot up at her choice of language but she carried on naturally. “You can not be 'tethered' to someone so damaged my darling. You're proof positive that that boy's got a soul that's in one piece. This Necromancer I fear may not be so complete. I have only ever heard of two or three Necromancers so strong as this one. My little godson at Scotland Yard, he tells me this one had his puppet damn near bite off another Necromancer's hand.”

“That's true actually,” John said, fingers clenching reflexively. “Wasn't even near the thing. I didn't even know that was possible.”

“It shouldn't be,” the Mambo said gravely. “Necromancers are naturally protected from the Raised. It should never have been able to hurt her without direct skin contact with a very powerful master. The one you're looking for is unnaturally powerful. You have to be careful John,” she said urgently, leaning toward him. “I can help you learn what you need to take control of your powers and open yourself up to all the possibilities that are out there and I can ask the loa for help and guidance but in the end this will be your fight. Yours and Sherlock's.”

Sherlock made a noise caught somewhere between a whine and a grunt, his hand twitching under John's grip. He seemed to realise where it was for the first time since sitting and snatched it back.

The Mambo sighed. “I'd hoped we'd have more time. I know you won’t be persuaded to do anything but take your boy home now. Let me see if I can find you some shoes.” Mama Laurette disappeared into the back room as John called after her,

“He's not my-” he gave up as the door closed behind her. John sighed and set about helping Sherlock into a sitting position as the man in question mumbled incoherently at him.

“The bees, John,” Sherlock slurred against John's shoulder as John rubbed his back. “They dance but they don't sing, don't you see, they can only sing when I can fly, so I can hear them, flying, John I have to-”

“Shh, now,” John hushed as the detective’s unruly hair tickled his neck and cheek. “I've got you. You don't have to do anything. It's okay. I've got you.” John repeated this soothing litany several times before Mama Laurette slipped back in the room.

She handed him a pair of unisex sandals that pinched in some places and felt loose in others. She slipped twenty pounds in his hand and refused all of John's attempts to give it back as they waited for the cab she'd called to pull up.

“You can repay me when you come back tomorrow ti cheri,” Mama Laurette said kindly. “We have much work to do together the two of us. We will become great friends, I'm sure of it.”

“Thank you,” John said, overcome by a sudden burst of fondness for a woman who had gone so far out of her way in an attempt to do what she thought was best for both them and the Gifted of London. She smiled at him, looking tired.

“Your cab is here Healer. Go take your boy home.” John nodded tightly, biting back a comment, and half dragged the stumbling agitated detective to the car idling by the sidewalk. He couldn't shake the feeling of having scraped close to the edge or the persistent question of what would have become of them if Mama Laurette hadn't found Sherlock.

...

The Healer turned from his charge and looked grimly at his master, fearing for his life (in a very discreet and professional manner of course). Being the bearer of bad news to Mycroft Holmes was like being the bearer of meat in a lion's den. The Healer took off his glasses, fidgeting with them nervously and keeping his eyes on them as he spoke.

“She's- she's totally Gift Suppressed sir. It would take months, possibly years of intense therapy to get her to unlock her Gift again.”

Mr. Holmes smiled, patting Ms. Hooper's ankle through the thin blanket as one might pat a dog that had just retrieved the paper.

“And her physical condition?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“I was able to clear up most of the infection, though it was quite tricky and still needs to be monitored closely. The blood loss was, thankfully, extremely minimal for this type of wound. The quick action by Mr. Watson likely saved her life. However...”

Mycroft's eyes narrowed at his pause and the Healer swallowed thickly. “Carry on Mr. Peters. I don't pay you for your good company,” Mycroft sneered. The Healer cast a quick glance at the two thugs standing by the door before he tried to catch his breath so he could continue. He ran a hand over his balding ginger hair.

“The damage to the ligaments, tendons, muscles and bones is nearly impossible to Heal back to a pristine condition. It's difficult to explain sir but Mr. Watson's quick patchwork sort of inadvertently... set her injuries so to speak. Things can only really be Healed so many times you see and what with Ms. Hooper being Gifted, well that makes things a bit trickier and-”

“Stop your stammering excuses you fool,” Mycroft snapped. “You mean to say that the wound won't be able to heal properly because of Watson's interference?”

“Yes? It's just every time I try to Heal it, it keeps telling me it's already been Healed you see. Oh, Mr. Holmes sir, there really aren't words in English appropriate to explain it but I think her only chance of avoiding permanent and crippling damage at this point would be to have Mr. Watson Heal her again. The tissues would likely respond better to him since it was his Chi that set them. I'm sorry sir this is a field of study that has received little attention and it's all very theoretical still. This is such a rare occurrence-”

“Leave,” Mycroft ordered simply. The Healer scrambled to comply, slipping his glasses back into place and casting one look back over his shoulder before scurrying out of the door. For weeks afterward he would have nightmares about the thoughtful expression on Mycroft's face as he surveyed the unconscious Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you thought :) 
> 
> As always my darlings kudos, comments, reviews, suggestions, questions and critiques are always welcome <3


	14. The Bees in my Pocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What to do with a drugged up consulting detective? Well when you're a Healer exhausted to the brink of collapse your options are kind of limited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

“You're home now, you're safe, I've got you,” John repeated soothingly as he sat Sherlock down on the couch and ran his fingers though the man's curly hair. John made a mental note about how he had to stop dragging Sherlock up the stairs to 221B. He was just getting too old for this shit.

His feet had almost healed themselves, that was true. They were still crusted with blood and dirt, and probably a few shards of a broken bottle or stones- he was too numb to tell at this point. The numbness was a blessing at this point to be honest, because with the tea the Mambo had given him wearing off, there were few parts of his body that didn't ache like he was eighty years old and out on in the rain.

He'd been spending too much Chi lately. First adrenaline and then the Mambo had dampened the effects, but the fallout wouldn't be avoidable forever. Maybe, John thought, as he rocked the unintelligibly muttering Sherlock back and forth in his arms, it would be avoidable just long enough to take care of a certain crazy genius.

“The bees John,” Sherlock slurred, tilting his head appreciatively into John's attentions. “I have to tell you about the bees.” Sherlock had napped heavily during the cab ride to Baker Street and had swayed with all the grace of a drunken giraffe as John had worked him up the stairs to their flat, one step at a time and with great patience. John had tried to lay Sherlock down on the couch but he was too tired to resist Sherlock's stubborn, sleepy will, and let the other man twist them around drunkenly until John had his legs stretched along the length of the sofa and Sherlock's cheek was pressed against John's chest from where he was curled in his Healer's lap.

John was tentatively hopeful that his friend would be back to his regular self within the hour. Or asleep for the night at least. He wanted so badly to pass out in his own bed tonight, safe and cozy with Sherlock safe and sleeping downstairs, and Mrs. Hudson safe and peaceful behind two sets of locked doors. 

And perhaps tomorrow they would kill the Necromancer and perhaps he could go back to the Mambo and she would teach him how to control himself in all the ways his great aunt had not had the time to do in those brief ten years she'd had with him- really eight because by the end she started forgetting, asking for her mother, asking if he was her brother. Best not to think about that, with Sherlock's precious skull cradled in his palm. Too much interference from exhaustion to keep those two great pains separate now.

And John thought, how strange that life keeps looping back on itself like this. He felt like he'd been here a thousand times, cradling Sherlock's Faberge-egg-fragile transport while the man himself was flying above the rest, totally unaware of how vulnerable he was. John felt like he would be here thousands and thousands of times again, just this spot with all the past and future stir fried together and not making any sense except for where he could feel Sherlock's pulse beneath his fingertips. He didn't mind. If moments had to keep recreating themselves--trying to perfect themselves maybe?--then this one wasn't such a bad choice, on the whole. Sure they were dented, damaged, but Sherlock would be fine and if there was one thing John had always known how to do it was soldier on. He could soldier on for both of them.

Sherlock's hands slipped up his sides, clutching at his jumper. “It's a message in a bottle,” Sherlock muttered, dampening the wool over John's heart with his open mouth.

“Is it now?” John asked wryly, rubbing soothing circles in Sherlock's scalp. The great detective mewled, arching into the pressure like a cat.

“Send an SOS to the world. Just a castaway. An island lost at sea,” Sherlock agreed.

“I didn't know you liked that song,” John whispered, pressing his lips against the top of Sherlock's head, cradling him close as he worked up the courage to slip away and leave the lanky man to sleep.

“I don't. Useless data. Never could get it out of my head that last time I was high. Why I overdosed. Trying to rise above it, make it go away so I wouldn't have to hear it anymore. Why are you shaking John? Are you cold?”

...

Abdominal muscles lurching, jackknifing involuntarily off the bed as precious air was forcibly ejected from her lungs, the screaming overriding machines and reason. There was pain and animal terror, the kind that comes with stinking shaking fear and a heart like a hammer made of hollow glass and hummingbird wings.

Molly Hooper was not resting peacefully.

It was not lost on Mycroft that her reaction was not unlike Watson's. Shared trauma, odd thing that. Watson was all blunt gun mettle and again unbroken bone and Molly Hooper, well she was nothing but a too-sweet peach made of nothing more staggering than guileless intelligence and submission. That she should share any reaction, even remotely, with Watson was quite unpleasant.

He saw her sedated, needle sinking home in the line of her IV. Given a particular slew of drugs that Mycroft had hand picked the same way he'd selected his brother's first designer suits. The elder Holmes's fingers tapped against the graceful wooden arch of his umbrella handle imagining soft fingers against black and white keys slowly finding one's way through the melody...ah yes, and now the tempo begins to change, the music pulling gently back before it mounts its crescendo...

She would be more manageable soon. Oh, it wasn't that he needed her buttered up--drugging her for that, how gauche--but certain opportunities were just too ripe to be passed up and she need not ever know if a special ingredient or two were added to the mix.

Little Molly Hooper, sweet low hanging peach that she was.

Hours later, hours of being watched by a brooding genius with an overactive Blackberry later, Molly Hooper moaned, turning her head heavily against the cornstarch white hospital pillow.

She blinked away her milky stupor, seeing Mycroft. She glanced around the room sluggishly, finding it empty of other visitors, and then let her gaze fall on him again.

“Mycroft?” She asked, her voice abused, rasping and lost.

“I confess I didn't relish the thought of you being alone when you woke Dr. Hooper. You've been through an extremely trying ordeal.” She flushed red to the roots of her hair.

“I gues I- I guess so, yes,” she wobbled in that sandpaper whisper.

“How are you feeling?”

“I just- I- only one of my hands is trembling,” her words flutter with tissue paper fragile awe, as if she is not entirely connected to her own body, as if the fact that she is doing this against her will, without her own noticing is terrifying. How quaint, Mycroft thought.

He pulled his chair closer to her bed and cupped his hands gently around hers, the one in the bulky gauze swaddling makes the gesture orders of magnitude less graceful than he would like. She looked at him, that same stunned and terrified awe, so vulnerable.

“I want to help you make sure nothing like this ever happens again Molly,” he told her with terrible sincerity, holding eye contact. For a second he thought she would crumble in his arms, collapsing like a child's cheap telescope much abused in the course of a budding pirate's adventures. But with one hand she gripped him back, tightly enough to be uncomfortable. Her eyes were intense suddenly, determined enough to kill.

“Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it. Mycroft I-” A little sob escaped her, hastily buttoned away. It wassn't weakness, he knew. It was fear and anger and desperation and finding oneself with naught but tangled vines where a well worn path should be.

“Hush now, there there,” Mycroft whispered, moving one hand to rub her shoulder a bit. “I'm here for you and I'm not going anywhere.” She redoubled her grip on his hand and looked at him through glossy, unshed tears.

“I'll never be able to repay you for your kindness. I never knew you were like this; so compassionate. Especially to someone who... who must be so useless now.” She said it with more reserve than he had expected. “I know the statistics. I know I must be Gift Suppressed. And with my hand... my job... I can never go back to doing what I did and I'm not trained for anything else, so.” She swallowed thickly.

“Don't worry about that,” Mycroft said. “I'll make sure you never need to fear destitution or idleness. Molly, I can find a place for you. Would you like that?”

“Yes. Yes- please. Please.”  
….........................................................

John waited until Sherlock slipped off back to sleep before he gingerly extricated himself from the sleeping detective. He felt too cold, too warm, sick to his stomach and hungry and thirsty, he couldn't stop the trembling, couldn't stop the sweating or the irrational thoughts. He knew that he should try to take something to kick start his Chi, to fight off the effects. He was barely two feet away before Sherlock reached out for him.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock drooled into the couch cushion. “I don't want- ships that pass in the night. In passing only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness- I don't want you to go John. We're not ships in the night.” John gently pulled Sherlock's hand from his arm and put it beside him on the couch.

“Whatever she gave you,” John whispered near Sherlock's cheek, “I want ten of them.”

“Me too,” agreed Sherlock with a sigh. “Remind me to tell you about the bees in my pocket John. I saved them for you. We have to save her.”

“We will,” John promised.

“I'm cold.” John pulled the Afghan off the back of the couch and tucked it around his friend before he went to the fireplace.

His knees creaked as he crouched down to build up the fire. Once it was roaring nicely, he closed the grate and let himself slump against the side of his chair for a second. He slid down, curling up on the rug before the fire, poker in hand, the locked door to the flat in his eyeline, Sherlock's gentle snores in his ears. What would it hurt if he took a little nap? Just... for... a second.

...

Somewhere on the dark drizzling streets of Camden three homeless men are killed and Raised in under five minutes. A girl hides on a rooftop across the street, breathing slowly through her panic as she tries not to hear the screaming, tries not to smell the phantom sulfur of the Raising. Only the Gifted had to suffer the smell of it. Only the broken ones like her tasted the sterile-sweet-hot-citrus of a Healer at work, or heard the soft insistent music of a Siren's silent touch. If the Necromancer senses her Chi she's dead. So she tries to press it down, to make it small and dull and damp, unnoticeable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked!
> 
> Kudos, comments, reviews, suggestions, requests, and critiques are always welcome :)


	15. Put Your Hands All Over Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to fix John and Mycroft tries to fix Molly. One is more successful than the other, but no worries there's plenty of distracting evidence being withheld from police and the definite possibility of several more deeply disturbing murders on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

Sherlock stretched, his muscles achy and his limbs inelegantly heavy. As he shifted more into the shallow pool of consciousness he noted a strange sour-sweetness on his tongue. The taste was stale, as if it had been there a while, and he knew he was at Baker Street so he wasn't overly worried about it. He squinted against the obscenely chipper sun bathing the flat in straw-golden light.

John was curled in on himself, asleep on the floor by the embers in the fireplace- it would have been hell on his shoulder. What on earth had possessed the man to sleep there, of all places? Had that accursed woman drugged him too? It simply wouldn't do.

Sherlock shifted his reluctant body off the comfortable warmth of the sofa and shuffled towards his friend with none of his usual poise.

“John,” he called, his baritone rough from sleep and lack of use, as if he were talking through a mouth full of cotton and gravel. Sherlock nudged John's leg with one sock covered foot. “John,” he called again, a bit impatiently. He wasn't looking forward to John's complaining about the pain in his shoulder when he woke up. Not verbal complaining of course, John was too much a man’s-man, too much the stoic soldier for something so vulnerable as that. It would be screaming through his body language though, that slight stiffness in his voice and a quickness to his temper. Sherlock hated seeing John in pain, particularly when he knew there was nothing the man would let him do to help soothe it.

“John?” Sherlock called, tremulously. John had never been this difficult to wake before, not at his most sleep deprived and grumpy. Sherlock sank to his knees, creaky joints suddenly forgotten.

...

John felt the light taps on his cheek as they became increasingly less gentle. Not life threatening. He was home. Safe. Relatively warm. He sank back in the syrupy darkness, content enough to let it all go, to just sink, and sink and sink.

...

“Come on John,” Sherlock muttered, his brow furrowing anxiously as he switched tactics and began shaking his friend. “I hope you realise you've forced me to this,” Sherlock told him, moving John's arm away from his body enough to wiggle his fingers in John's armpit, tickling with scientific precision, a dirty trick for which John had once, accidentally, almost broken Sherlock's arm during a struggle over the remote.

Not a twitch. Nothing. The matter was truly serious.

Sherlock brushed his trembling, long-fingered hand through John's oily, straw-golden hair, gently, an unaccountable act of sentimentality. His hand continued on, down the vulnerable curve of John's neck, pressing against the pulse point there. Steady, slow, but still in a healthy range for a sleeping man of John's physical fitness. Visible chest rise was similarly comforting. Sherlock pried open John's left eye, the muscles worryingly slack. He used his cell phone as an improvised flashlight, shining it in John's eye. He did the same to the right. Equal and responsive, not a brain injury then.

It didn't take a genius of Sherlock's caliber to determine the most likely cause of this... this... he wasn't prepared to call it a coma. It wasn't a coma. It was simply an incredibly deep, ongoing sleep. Which required immediate action on Sherlock's part. Yes. That was it.

He could think of only one person who'd be able to help immediately.

...

Molly's new apartment was a lot like her old apartment, in that, well, it was her old apartment but with upgraded security cameras and sensors and... things. Things which required Mycroft to buy her new bookshelves and arrange them around her new area rug. It was all very dignified, really. And she appreciated it! Of course she did, really, really, it was too much.

“Oh don't fret my dear,” said Mycroft consolingly from his place on her new plush brown leather sofa. “It's only the living area, kitchen, hall and bathroom. Your bedroom shall be left totally to your more... girlish design sensibilities.” He took a bite from the fresh blueberry scone resting on the gilded plate on the coffee table.

“Truly Anthea, you've outdone yourself,” he called to the dark haired assistant who was cleaning up in the stainless steel and granite kitchen which had been pink tile yesterday. The pin-up-perfect woman hummed a bit like a cat purring in response. She was so beautiful, and talented, and intelligent Molly was sure, though of course she hadn't heard the woman speak more than a few monosyllabic replies since she'd showed up to wheel Molly from the hospital, when Mycroft had assured her that she would be much better served resting up at home.

“It's just that- sorry, sorry,” Molly stammered, moving aside to the workmen could carry her new bathroom sink past. “It's just that, I um, not that this isn't lovely, because it is, but I'm not really sure I, er, understand the point really. Not that I don't like it!” She rushed to clarify at Mycroft's disapproving frown. “It's just, why, er, what, that is... will I be entertaining someone?”

“Very good deduction Molly,” Mycroft praised warmly, and Molly felt herself blush. Any scrap of praise had tenfold the meaning coming from the man who had watched Sherlock Holmes hone his intelligence his whole life.

Mycroft set his scone back down and stood, walking to her. “You will be my mouth piece Molly. You will be the face the public sees when I campaign, or should I say, the Prime Minister campaigns, to pass the new legislation we talked about. Every cause needs a champion. You have a long record of doing good and highly supervised work for the government. Your past is so clean it makes bleach look positively filthy. You have a sincerity, a charm which can not be bought or faked. You're intelligent, hard working, and most of all effective. You will appeal to the Gifted and the ordinary alike. This is why I need to Molly Hooper,” he said sincerely, taking her hands in his and looking her in the eye.

“So yes. You will entertain here. You will bring people back to this place and serve them tea and wine, and charm them, and tell them your story, and they will believe you and love you, and most importantly, they will say what we need them to say in the media and everyone will cry for this legislation to be passed, and funded, and then my little love, our dreams of a new, safer, United Kingdom will be brought to fruition. Do you understand Molly?”

“Perfectly,” Molly breathed, choking on her own tongue, in awe of the man before her. “Yes- yes, sir I do, I will, I-”

“Good,” interrupted Mycroft smoothly. He slipped a smart phone out of his suit jacket, but it wasn't the one she'd seen him on earlier. The patter on the case, cartoon cats running through a field of daisies, also lead her to believe that it wasn't his.

“Now that we've seen you all settled in, Anthea and I must be off. Dreadfully sorry about the noise,” he shouted over the obnoxious drone of a drill from the bathroom. “I had hoped this would be done before you were released, but you know how hard it is to find reliable help these days. C'est la vie,” he sighed. “This phone is programmed with all the numbers you'll need. I'm listed under M. Sherridan, and Anthea is Alice H. Use no other device than this, for security reasons. Good day Ms. Hooper.”

Molly nodded, dazed, as Mycroft left, Anthea grabbing his half eaten scone and adding it to the Tupperware container of them she was taking with her, following her boss from the flat. Some particularly loud drilling and what sounded like a sledgehammer shattering her mirror came from the bathroom as the door swung gently shut behind them. Molly flinched and went to hide out in her bedroom with Toby the cat and a bottle of wine, inspecting her closet for media worthy outfits which wouldn't embarrass the two who had been so kind to her, who had given her new purpose when the morgue wouldn't even return her calls, doctorate or no.

...

“There's something so fun about getting new pets. Wouldn't you agree, my love?” Mycroft asked Anthea as she opened the door to the sleek black car for him.

“It has it's appeal,” she agreed, a slight grin on her cranberry lips. She slid in after him and ordered the driver to their next stop without needing to be told.

...

“What the bleeding, sodding, ass fucking, goddamn, cunting _hell_ is going on here!” John shouted as he roared into consciousness on the living room floor of 221B.

“John-” Sherlock began placating.

“You shut your whore mouth!” John screamed, pointing an accusatory finger in his flatmate's face. Sherlock's snapped shut with a click of his teeth. _Well then_.

The waitress from Speedy's was weeping openly now, her arm caught in John's punishing grip, painfully tight.

“Did he talk you into this?” John demanded, shaking her harshly, which only made her bawling grown uncontrollably louder. John attempting to corral his temper was physically visible.

“Didn't anyone ever teach you the first thing about Gifted ethics?” He seethed, scowling at her as she shook her head wildly back and forth.

“Me mum always said not ta use it on anyone, the Devil's Gift. She said it was evil, but 'e was ellin' at me an' tellin' me I could save ya and I don' want no trouble, I swear Mister I'll never do it again!” She broke of in great hiccuping sobs.

John had to use his other hand to pry his fingers off her arm one by one- so strong was his instinct to contain her, and the blundering attempts at Chi manipulation which had ignited his primal survival instant and keel hauled him out of the comforting nothingness of true unconsciousness in the space of a second. Sherlock contemplated helping, but there was dangerous and then there was downright suicidal. Shelock was done being suicidal for a while, thank you.

“Look, you don't ever go messing about with someone's Chi without their permission, especially if they're unconscious. It's incredibly dangerous for both of you, not to mention unethical and, in this case, unnecessary.” The chunky brunette waitress was still weeping uncontrollably, but she nodded frantically as John talked. There was a smart rapping on the door downstairs and Sherlock took this perfect opportunity to escape, even knowing who he would have to deal with on the other side.

“I'm not fucking done with you,” John called after him, in a tone which assured Sherlock that though he was excused for now, this would by no means be forgotten. The detective had a sinking feeling that this might turn out to be like that much begrudged coffee incident in Baskerville. Despite that his measures in both instances (though perhaps considered extreme by others) were perfectly reasonable given the circumstances.

“Sherlock. You're looking well rested.” Mycroft said by way of casually disinterested greeting when his brother pulled open the door.

“Go away,” Sherlock rejoined only to have Mycroft use that damn umbrella of his to push the door open further.

“Shall I take my Healer with me then?” Mycroft asked, a squirrely man with glasses fidgeting on the step behind the elder Holmes.

“I suppose I can endure your company for five, perhaps even ten minutes.”

“I thought you'd see it my way,” Mycroft preened.

“People usually do,” Sherlock muttered, turning and stomping back up the steps and leaving them on the steps, the door still wide open.

John was still talking to the over-sensitive waitress as Sherlock snatched the all important paper from his coat pocket and stashed it in his room, where his brother couldn't set his fat greedy eyes on it. This mystery was Sherlock and John's to solve. They had hurt Molly, and she was a friend of sorts- a trusted colleague. This case had worn John to breaking. It was personal now.

“It's not that you did anything wrong if you didn't know. Those damn classes are supposed to teach you about your Gift, not just tell you horror stories that are half myth to scare you into not using it. Look, I know someone who can help you. Her methods might be a bit unconventional, and come to think of it she doesn't exactly have the most clear cut views on the ethics of use herself, but why don't you come with me to see her as soon as your shift is done. She can help us both,” John was saying, deliberately ignoring the two guests as they climbed the stairs and entered the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed!
> 
> All my love until next time guys, and as usual, kudos, comments, reviews and suggestions are always welcome.


	16. Dirty Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

“Bravo Mr. Watson,” Mycroft sneered from the threshold. “Attempting to guide a wayward youth of your breed. How... _noble_ of you.”

“That's doctor Watson to you,” John said, trying to ignore how the trembling waitress's eyes widened in fear at the arrival of someone who was so clearly powerful and prejudiced. Mycroft turned to her, as if sensing, or more probably deducing, John's train of thought.

“Send the mongrel back to her position serving scraps at the cafe and we can proceed.” It was at this point that Sherlock come out of his room, carefully closing the door behind him despite the fact that no one was paying him any heed.

“You fat, pompous, sodding, egotistical, maniacal-” John yelled.

“John, do please remind me why I've canceled a lunch with three members of parliament in a very exclusive bistro.” Mycroft twirled his umbrella on it's point, a tell which Sherlock had long ago assured him meant the older Holmes was feeling smug. How anyone ever felt that they needed a tell to jump to that assumption was beyond John.  
The waitress from Speedy's clung to John's arm, more confused and scared than ever.

“Just get your man to fix him already,” Sherlock waved his hand at John as he crossed the room to his violin- his defense mechanism of choice in the presence of the older Holmes. The balding man in the spectacles looked at Mycroft who rolled his eyes and shooed him in John's direction with his umbrella, as if the man was to blame for not reading Mycroft's mind.

“Don't fucking touch me,” John spat, taking an angry step back and placing his hand softly over the girl's to bring her with him.

“Wh-what?” the Healer stammered. Sherlock stood stock still like a doe in the woods who had scented a gun and Mycroft just rolled his eyes in an even more painfully exaggerated motion than before.

“Believe it or not I _do_ have appointments to keep. Taking my brother's ill-kept pet to the veterinarian is _not_ the highlight of my day. Cease your tedious suborn facade Watson, we all know it's just for show. Let Abernathy tend to you so we can be done with this farce.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock screamed, enraged. John held a hand out to his friend, warning him to leave it.

“How can I be clearer?” John mused sarcastically. “Fuck. Off.”

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, his mouth souring and his fingers tightening around his brolly. “Just remember John, all of your actions have consequences.” Sherlock looked between his brother and his flatmate, picking up on the mountain of tension between them, but without a clue as to why it should be there. Mycroft left them with one last sneer and a not-quite-muttered, “The things I do for family.”

With an uncharacteristic hesitancy Sherlock called his friend's name. He set down his violin without plucking a single string and stepped closer to John, who had an icy sickness in the pit of his stomach. There would be a reprisal for what he just did, he was sure. “Was that... wise? I know he's the worse kind of arse and just being in the same room with him can feel like an innovative form of water boarding, but you don't seem well.”

“I'm fine Sherlock. Mama Laurette can help me, help us both,” he amended, giving the girl's hand a good squeeze for comfort.

“Why wouldn't you let the Healer help you. Don't you lot have a... code or something,” Sherlock said, waving his arm around as he spoke.

“The man had a guilty conscience. A potent one,” said John absently. It wasn't a lie.

“Like garlic and sauerkraut,” the waitress added with a wrinkle of her nose. Sherlock fixed his gaze on the girl.

“Interesting. Her Gift seems to be growing.” John snorted absently, most of his limited brainpower focused on trying to remember the address to Mama Laurette's shop and how to politely ask the girl to stop clinging to him.

“Of course they are. She just tried to use them. She'll be more aware of them now than when she was pretending she wasn't Gifted at all.” John shrugged.

“Aware enough to develop Gift-related synethesia without touching the subject in question? It takes a moderately talented Healer years of training to read an aura, and she could barely Heal someone's paper cut without help.” Sherlock's mouth always gave away his concern, the slight wrinkling between his brows.

John abruptly felt like he'd been plunged in the arctic, his heart beating rapidly and his blood like ice. The girl was looking at him with trusting, confused eyes as he took a deliberate step away from her. He'd forgotten how easy it was for Healers to connect to each other like that, especially in times of stress and intense emotion. Unlike with Necromancers, their Gifts flowed from the same source, barely even a thought and suddenly... John's sudden nausea nearly got the best of him. It was one thing to do it with Molly when she'd specifically asked and knew the consequences, but this girl was another matter entirely. It was wrong. John should have more control than that, be more aware. He had to.

 

“Look, I have to go. I have to see Mama Laurette. Are you coming with me?” Sherlock took a step forward, opened his mouth, said nothing, darting his eyes back to his room.

“You hid something there. Something to do with the case that you didn't want your brother to see. You're on to something.” John knew his friend's apologetic look by now- the honest one the said that meant he was at cross-purposes with himself. “Stay,” John said kindly. “Tell me all about it when I get back. I doubt I'll be gone more than two hours.”

“John you are spectacular,” Sherlock grabbed John's face, kissing his forehead in an uncontainable burst of jubilant affection. “You'd better be fighting fit tonight. Ten to one says that we're going to be chasing down this Necromancer once and for all.” John smiled at the light in his friend's eyes and watched him dash off to his room to collect his vital evidence. John grabbed his jacket and gestured for the girl to walk ahead of him down the stairs.

…

The cypher was a thing of beauty. Not particularly complex, it seemed (after all, it was written in the roman alphabet rather than some nonsensical font full of symbols). But even in the rushed lines of it's construction- the author must have been in a true rush- there was a certain elegance which was hard to quantify.

The paper was yellowed, musty, old paper which had once been expensive but which had been improperly stored. From the bottom left hand corner a trellis of black ink honeycomb crept across the page, the singular geometric shape repeating itself over and over again into something organic. A single, very detailed, honeybee sat in the middle of this grid. Two other bees were drawn elsewhere on the page, giving the composition an artistic sense of balance.

The code itself was written around it in a very precise hand which only occasionally smeared or slanted or showed signs of distress on behalf of the author. The code itself was either meant to be cracked quickly or was rather poorly done. If the Necromancer was aiming for something Zodiac-esque with this missive then he surely missed his mark by a mile. The message itself was fairly short

“ **Tf Usjose  
Xl arx mpqq cltbvc, kb Nshnvp. G psqe osyt. Rjs Zfjfbqypqqs fch'vc evmtpbt mq ctffy ar. M'k jwe sloy xytuqu Avrvc kg zp awyi rq sjqsovr. Nnsmtl arir os nz avr hsey bpur nx Pguqoag cepm, gqwlb cq, Dtwpbf. Pr gytsrvs, vr agnz wjsz lss kt tf ziftcehe zvi'ei fgzbjuu zi.  
Qkbofysyc,  
Tcbqtzo (osbg bmnl Oqijg)**"

Sherlock sat himself down on the sofa in the living room with a stack of fresh paper and began the real work of cracking it. It wouldn't take long.

…

Across London Greg Lestrade was having another fantastic day in paradise.

“Hurry up, get the bitch from me sight!” the man screamed, rushing from the bedroom back into the kitchen, throwing a random assortment of lady's clothes at his sobbing wife.

“Alright, alright, keep your knickers on!” Lestrade shouted, barely holding the woman's husband at bay as he attempted to be heard over the wailing. A member of the Special Removal Squad had the Gifted wife subdued. The poor SRS lads had been working double and triple shifts lately. Lestrade really didn't envy them their job- removing problematic Gifted from the public and transporting them to specialized holding cells to await processing and trial.

They'd been responding to five or six times their usual number of calls lately, thanks to this Necromancer fuckery.

“Ya fookin' witch, I know ya done it! Ya used them black powers on me bitch, I know it!” spittle flew from his mouth as he pressed forward against Lestrade's restraining hands. “Ya swore ya wouldn't do it but yer just like the rest of 'em, aren't ya?”

“No!” the wife wailed, curling in on herself on the kitchen floor and crying into her hands despondently. “No! No!” she kept screaming.

“Shoulda listened to me mum shouldn't I?” The woman gave a high pitches wail, as if physically wounded.

“You say one more word and I cuff you too,” Lestrade warned.

“You defending that trash?” the husband asked. Two SRS boys in their head to toe black riot gear, were dragging the despondent woman out to their tactical black van.

“Listen you self important twat, **I'm a DI**! It's not my job to respond to every bitchy domestic that happens in London! The next time you get pissed at your wife don't call the police and make it sound like there's a Necromancer eating your fucking leg instead of making you dinner!” Lestrade shoved the husband back and snapped at a young officer to finish the report.

Tired, angry and stressed as he was, it didn't even seem worth the effort of being surprised when he saw the sleek unmarked car which signaled Mycroft Holmes outside. At this point, Lestrade knew better than to fight it. He just glanced heavenward and sent a few choice words to whatever deity might be watching (how did the Holmes brothers ever become his division?) and climbed in the car. One passenger the richer, it pulled away from the scene.

…

“Thank goodness Gregory,” Mycroft said easily. “I was beginning to think we might be late.”

“Late for what?” Greg asked flatly.

“Why lunch, of course.”

“Sorry Mr. Holmes, I'm a married man,” Greg quipped easily.

“Not for much longer. But for now, yes you are,” Mycroft admitted. “I do hope the ministers won't be too disappointed.”

“Ministers?” Greg asked, gobsmacked.

“Oh, yes. We've got a lot of work to do Detective Inspector. Making Britain Safer For Ordinary People. I'm counting on you to help me.” Lestrade suddenly wondered if he should have tried to escape after all.

…

The restaurant they pulled up to was just as posh as one would expect. Greg's coat was taken, his chair pulled out for him, a napkin placed in his lap and a menu in his hand. Molly was next to him in a stunning cobalt blue dress which did amazing things for her coloring, though it was much lower cut than he would have expected from her. And to be perfectly honest, well, he was a red blooded man, wasn't he? He was bound to look a bit. It was distracting. He'd never seen her looking so beautiful, not even at that awkward Christmas party at Baker street. The only thing out of place was the pink cast on her wrist- an all to stark reminder of just how close she'd come to death.

She smiled sheepishly at him and Mycroft cleared his throat. Several men and women in expensive, well tailored suits were already seated at the table with them. Some Lestrade even recognized.

“Seems like everyone but the Prime Minister is here,” Lestrade joked, feeling unaccountably nervous and ill. Molly took his hand and gave it a little squeeze.

“Oh that idiot,” Mycroft said dismissively. “Whatever would we need him for? He does as he's told, nothing more.” A few of the politicians laughed, and not nicely.

“Why am I here Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked, falling back on the reliable old anesthetic of irritation. “I am still on the clock you know. Crimes to solve. Murders to catch. You know, police business.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said with gentle condensation. “You're an employee of the government of Great Britain. We are Great Britain and we want you here. Now please, try the appetizers. There's some new legislation in the works we'd like to talk to you about, but it won't do to have you less than well fed. No reason to waste a reservation at a perfectly acceptable restaurant, is there?” A few of the politicians hummed and nodded in agreement.

Greg hesitated and Mycroft looked pointedly at the tray in the center of the table. Lestrade took some yellow fluff of food which he thought might be a quiche and gave it a nibble. It seemed to appease His Highness.

“What legislation?” Lestrade asked.

“It's to do with the Gifted problem. Things have been getting worse over the years and the situation has become untenable. Schools aren't doing enough. Prisons aren't doing enough. Society has failed the members that need it most- the Gifted. For their own sake they need to be taught control. How to purport themselves like civilized people without hurting those around them. There need to be databases, cataloging Gift's with their owner's fingerprints and DNA so that we can solve crimes like this Necromancer business without all this fuss. 

"I'm talking about sweeping, massive reforms. Special schools to be constructed where every Gifted child can go and learn how to properly contain themselves. Government positions opening up, particularly in our overseas operations and criminal investigations, so that those who wish to be useful can have the opportunity to do so. In short Gregory, there will be three parts: registration, which is for everyone, utilization, which is for those chosen few who are talented and trust worthy, and incarceration, for all those who would dare defy our laws and endanger the rest. This is the new future of Britain and we want you to help us build it.” Mycroft smiled, self satisfied.

“What do you want me to do? And why is Molly here? You don't need us for this.”

“That's where you're wrong. Naturally we here at this table could pass any law we fancied. The problem is the people Gregory. The people need to comply. We need them to trust us so that we can help them. Molly has so graciously agreed to be our point of contact with the Gifted community and you will be our man in law enforcement. There may be certain members of Scotland Yard who feel hesitant to help us enforce some of these laws. Misguided apprehensions. We need you to help them understand that what they're doing is what's best for their friends and family and community. It's what's best for everyone. We aren't going to hurt the Gifted, we're going to help them. Isn't that right Molly?” Mycroft nodded at Molly who turned her brilliant smile on him, her other hand coming to rest on his arm.

“It is. Mycroft's told me everything, all the details, and it's all brilliant. Trust me Greg, we're going to make such a big difference, we can really do a good thing here.” He looked into Molly's eager eyes, remembered how close she'd been to death, how the uncontrolled Gifted, the other ones, had nearly killed her, and somehow Lestrade found himself saying,

“Okay.”

Mycroft took a sip of his tea to hold of the urge to smile. His plan was running smoothly. He knew the low cut dress had been the right choice.

...

It's surprisingly easy to find Mama Laurette's, considering. In the harsh light of morning John can easily read the stylized green sign, “Mama Laurette's Voodoo Cafe and Bookshop”. John steps out of the cab and holds his hand out to help Anna, who had stopped by Speedy's before they left to change out of her work clothes and braid her ginger locks into loose pigtails which made John keenly aware that she was potentially young enough to be his niece.

He holds the door for her as she trots in, holding the straps of her little backpack like a child on her first day of school.

Mama Laurette was sitting with her back to the door in the same seat she'd taken last night, only now three men were sitting in front of her- two John's age and one closer to Anna's.

“Oh Doctor John!” Mama Laurette exclaimed without turning to look at who'd walked in. “How lucky you decided to join us just now ti cheri. I was just telling my boys here that it was time to call on the Loa.” At this the Mambo did turn around with a mischievous smile. “Dangerous business, that.” John felt an answering smile grow without his permission. “Oh look you've got a friend!” She exclaimed to te newly quaking Anna.

“I'm sorry, did you say 'dangerous'?” Anna asked. “I'm not really into 'dangerous'. Do you think we could maybe start with more like, 'mildly alarming'?” The Mambo gave a boisterous laugh that was echoed more softly by her male companions.

“What is it you want, child? Why did the good doctor bring you to me of all the experienced Vaudou priestesses in London?”

Anna glanced at John questioningly before she answered, “He said you could teach me control. I don't want me mum to look at me like a loaded gun anymore.”

“I can't fix your mother's eyes ti cheri, but I can teach you how to see with yours. I will train you if you would like to be my assistant.” The Mambo held out her hand with maternal softness. Anna looked to John again. He held her eyes.

“It's up to you,” he whispered without meaning to. Anna snapped her eyes away and took Mama Laurette's dark wrinkled hand.

“Just like you said Mama,” the younger boy blurted, looking at the elderly woman with amazement and no small amount of pride.

“Psh,” the Mambo waved her hand. “Easy enough to guess a new student was on the way. Harder to guess whom. I had hoped it would be the doctor, but God grants only what wishes he sees fit. Bigger things are in store for the poor dokté, but we must leave all that to God planning, to the hands of the saints and the loa.” The two older men nodded wisely whist the younger one looked on at the Mambo, even more awe struck than before.

“I'm sorry, but did you say that your wouldn't be training me? You said I needed to learn how to use my Gift better, if I'm not mistaken. You're the only person I know who can help me.” John said, tamping down on the initial swelling of his internal panic.

“No ti cheri,” the Mambo said, shaking her head with sad eyes. “You are the only person you know who can help you. It has always been so. I can merely give you a hand up now and then. It is you who must climb the mountain. Stay for the ritual. I will give you what help I can, but time is short.” Mama Laurette stands up, her joints cracking as she sighs, “I'm getting too old for this shit.” She walks into the back room, the men following behind her, clearly expecting Anna and John to do the same.

“You can leave any time you want,” John assures Anna. “But this is something I need to do.”

“I think I'm here for a reason,” Anna said with an obvious air of bravado. John touched her shoulder soothingly, keeping the touch brief as he remembered his slip back in 221B. _Time to soldier on Watson,_ he thought to himself, squaring his shoulders and leading the way into the back room.

….

John honestly wasn't sure what he was expecting but he found himself surprised by the space that the Voodoo community of London used to preform their ceremonies and rituals and such. It was mostly empty. The floor was concrete, bare but clean, the walls white and freshly scrubbed with something that left a whiff of lemon behind in the air. There was a small study table in the middle with some candles and other odds and ends on it, a large cabinet in the corner and a few chairs. That was it.

Mama Laurette picked up a long piece of chalk from the table, the same kind John had used as a child in school, and rolled it in her fingers, feeling the texture. John could see her aura dancing- there was no other word for it- vibrating with excitement, strong and clear and soaring around her in vibrant greens and blues that were, not bruised with the ripe banana yellow of fear, but more like augmented by it. It made all the other colors so much richer and sharper. It was rare to see someone so much in their element and so enthused about it. John thought of Sherlock and longed so fiercely to see him on a case now that he'd his sight that for a moment John almost turned and left to go find him.

“What are we going to need Mama Laurette?” one of the older gentlemen asked.

“Rum,” said Mama Laurette decisively. “Spiced rum. A good cigar. A black goat.” John looked around but only he and Anna seemed to find this list a bit strange.

“A goat,” John said slowly. “Where are we going to be a black goat in London?”

“I've got one in my truck,” the older man said. “Just in case. Mama Laurette had a feeling we would need it and Mama Laurette's feelings are rarely wrong.”

“Sorry, but what's the goat for?” Anna asked apprehensively. Everyone but John gave her the look that parents give children who ask if babies really come from cabbage patches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Likes, comments, kudos, questions, requests, and reviews are always welcome.


	17. As I Could Not Stop for Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented (especially Neverwhere and MorganRose for their insightful comments).
> 
> I'd like to take this opportunity to remind everyone that everything I know about Voodoo I learned from online sources and so may not be entirely accurate. Also I took certain artistic liberties, which hopefully are not offensive to anyone who may be more intimately acquainted with Voodoo and its community than I am.
> 
> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

The blue dress really did suit Molly, Greg reflected. He could still remember how blown away he'd been when he saw her at Holmes' Christmas party all that time ago. It wasn't often she really let on how beautiful she was. She was a good girl, Molly. Intelligent woman, as morally upright as they come. So of course he followed her back to her flat when she offered.

She grinned sheepishly at him over her shoulder as she fumbled with her keys, trying to keep her clutch tucked between her elbow and her ribcage and doing a miserable job of it. He was about to offer to hold it when the door swung open.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Molly said, immediately kicking off her heels. “Really. Put on some telly if you like. The remote is...” she glanced around and Greg did too automatically. He knew on first sight that this flat wasn't Molly's, or if it was there had been some very recent and drastic renovations. There was nothing of her here but a few pictures on the wall and some subtle pink accents which seemed more like a last minute nod to her personality than anything else.

Greg sat on the plush leather couch, which looked more suited to a psychiatrist's office than Molly Hooper's flat. He rubbed his hands nervously up and down his thighs, wondering how he should say what was on his mind.

“Can I offer you a snack or...?” Molly asked, eyes wide and desperate to please.

“No. I've got to get back to work soon. I shouldn't even be here in the first place. Look Molly, I have something that I want to talk to you about but I don't want you to get upset at me, alright?”

“I guess, yeah, well... I mean I can't promise not to be upset I don't think, but I can try to listen.” Molly sat down on the edge of the couch, tugging the hem of the dress towards her knees self consciously. Greg took a deep breath. Best just to jump in then.

 

“What does Mycroft Holmes have over you?”

“What?” Molly gasped.

“Did he threaten you? How's he making you agree to this bollocks?” Greg asked, waving his arm at the dress and the flat. “Whatever it is you can tell me Molly. I am on your side. I've always been on your side I guess. Maybe I haven't said so before but I- you're like a sister to me. And I know I'm not the most progressive man or anything, but even I can see that this whole plan of his means nothing but shit for people like you. The Gifted. It's not right Molly. I wanted to believe that he had good intentions, I wanted to trust him, I really did, but-”

“Shut up!” Molly screamed, her anger propelling her to stand. “Just shut up about Mycroft! He's a good man and he cares about me! He took care of me! He's going to make things better for all of us and I'm going to help him because he needs me. He actually needs me Greg, and not like you or Sherlock or the fucking Met. He wants me to be happy and taken care of. He wants me to be his right hand. I'm going to help him change the world so things like this,” she raised her arm in it's bulky pink cast, “never happen again. You can get on board or you can get out.” She said with angry eyes and a wobbling chin.

“Of course,” Lestrade said with a sinking heart and a forced smile. “I trust you Molly. If you believe him then...” Lestrade let her fill in her own blanks as she pursed her lips at him, angrily wiping the tears away from her face and smearing mascara and eyeliner all over her cheeks. She nodded tightly.

“I appreciate your faith in me Greg. I really do. I always have. But I think it's best if you leave now.”

“Of course,” Greg agreed easily. “I need to get back to work. Thank you for... for everything Molly.” Molly forced a quick smile at him, her arms crossed over her chest and her shoulders hunched defensively as she watched Greg leave. She waited until she heard the echo of his footsteps on the stairs fade away before she called Mycroft.

“I think Lestrade is going to be a problem,” she said as soon as she was bid to speak. “I think, I mean I'm pretty sure, seventy five percent sure, I can handle it. I just thought you ought to know.”

All she heard from the other end was a pensive “good work” and the click of the call being ended. Molly took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself and rubbing at her stained cheeks fruitlessly. It was difficult to believe that life had been less dramatic and complicated when she had been able to raise the dead on a regular basis (although there was the notable exception of Nana's funeral when she was just a wee girl too young to understand what she was doing, much less why it wasn't the done thing or why made her father take a belt to her behind). Toby rubbed against her calf, rumbling a purr. Molly kneeled down to scratch behind his ears gratefully, reminded by his presence that she mustn't forget she wasn't alone.

…

Mama Laurette had explained before the ritual began that the Loa wouldn't show up for nothing. They needed a demonstration of how much the group wanted to speak to them. They wanted gifts which would appease their spirits. Sometimes, Mama Laurette warned, the human body needed to be prepared with pain before it could contain the loa. The men took their places sitting at the edges of the room, drums tucked between their legs.

Even with the existence of the Gifted, and chakras and chi and auras being general knowledge, it was still rare to find someone who believed in things like rituals and spirits. After all, zombies were just animated flesh, there was no proof of any actual kind of life after death. John would have been inclined to agree with this line of thinking before he met Mama Laurette.

Before he heard the drums and saw the chalk symbol on the floor, the goat's blood, before he felt the stirring of some ambient energy that was half malevolent and half intoxicating, somehow reminiscent of the war. Mama Laurette screamed, throwing herself down on the floor, surprisingly hard for such an elderly lady, beating her fists against the concrete, against her chest as she screamed in a language which John could not comprehend but which sounded purposeful and right.

Before he saw her aura, a whiplash of tropical colors, still from its buzzing around her and drain like black ink was being pour over her. John's heart skipped, beating triple time in his chest as he stared on wide eyed. Auras could not be black. It wasn't possible, but Mama Laurette's black aura expanded like a cloud that touched every corner of the room in shadows, skewing light dramatically in a way that auras weren't supposed to do.

Mama Laurette's eyes opened, her face skeletal and shadowed. Her body stood with a confidence and grace which was too suggestive and cocky to be her own. The loa cast its eyes around before they landed on the glass of spiced rum which had been poured.

“Oh fucking yes,” the spirit said in a voice much deeper and rougher than Mama Laurette's. It picked up the glass and downed the contents with one thirsty swallow, licking it's lips with something like delight. “You there, tight-arse,” said the loa, pointing at John. “Got yourself in a massive shit storm, don't ya?”

“Um, yeah,” said John, not sure how this while talking to extremely powerful voodoo spirits thing was supposed to be done. “Er, who may I ask is speaking?” he tried. The spirit through it's head back and laughed raucously. John looked at the faces of Mama Laurette's boys- terrified, fascinated, raptly paying attention. John got the distinct impression that they knew exactly who this was.

“I am Baron Samedi!” the loa announced in his charming gravely voice throwing his arms out wide and coking his hips to the side like a diva. “Don't you fucking recognize me John-boy? Guardian of the dead, gatekeeper of cemeteries? Oh but it wasn't quite me that time in Afghanistan, was it John-o? It was another aspect of Death that spat you back at the world, wasn't it? I admit, she's got better tits than me (don't tell her I said that) but you should fucking know Death when you see It. Some fucking Healer you are.” The loa smiled sharkishly at John's stunned silence and sat on the edge of the table. He took the cigar that lay next to the bottle of rum, sticking the cigar between Mama Laurette's teeth and striking a match to light it.

John checked on Anna but she seemed paralyzed, staring on dumbstruck at the strange scene that was going on around her. He could sort her out later.

“Hey, you guys wanna hear a joke? How are women and tornadoes alike?” The loa waited a second, pretending to give them time to answer. “Both are loud as hell when they come and take the house when they leave.” Baron Samedi laughed charmingly and everyone in the room found themselves smiling. There was something so magnetic about their guest. The smoke from his cigar rose around him, mysterious, creepy, artistic.

“Baron Samedi,” said John when the others did not speak. “There's a Necromancer who's been-”

“Oh don't even get me started on that piece of shit motherfucker! You don't know the fucking half of it Healer boy. Necromancy is a fucking gift! And do you know how that sick fuck has been growing his powers so disgustingly out of proportion? He's been draining children. Sucking them fucking dry. There's few things that piss me off quite like killing children. What's the point of all this mess if they can't even live full lives?! Disgusting.” Baron Samedi filled the glass with more rum and downed it in one quick shot.

“Draining...” John said, the cold oil of true terror settling in his stomach at last.

“An old practice, outlawed in every culture ever to have been. Children trust so easily, so full of life and potential. It's so easy to drain it out of them when one knows what they are doing. And he does. He reaches in and pulls out all that makes them who they are. It takes time, weeks, months, the stronger the Gifted child is the longer it takes to steal their Gift from them, to leave them empty of the thing you call Chi. I take them as a mercy then.” Baron Samedi's eyes were black and gleaming, hungry, and John knew that the loa wanted very badly to get his own hands on the Necromancer.

“How can we find him? How can he be stopped?”

“Oh your pretty detective fellow will find him soon enough,” there was laughter in the loa's eyes and John doubted it would be quite as easy as he made it seem. “Fucking smokin' hot, innit he?” The loa whistled, eyes sparkling with more of that mischief. “Boy's got good genes, fantastic arse. Don't pretend you haven't noticed. Death isn't my only aspect and I know where your filthy eyes have been wandering. I've got a thing for fucking the uptight ones too, I've gotta tell you. His mother, Las Vegas Nevada, ninteeen eighty... something or another. Now there was a fucking night, let me tell you. That woman had a mouth like a fucking-”

“Yes. Right,” John said, unable to bear another word or the fact that the loa seemed to be laughing at him. “About the Necromancer.” Baron Samedi sighed and set his glass down. He stood and walked over to John.

“You're a powerful Healer. You have so much untapped potential, you just need to work on your stamina.” Baron Samedi did a few joking pelvic thrusts which John did his best to ignore, especially as the loa was still currently seated in Mama Laurette, despite the fact that he looked so unlike her somehow. “I'm going to give you something, a gift.” 

Baron Samedi stepped closer and touched the side of John's head with his cold skeletal fingers, so unlike Mama Laurette's. He felt something like liquid nitrogen jolt through him. “Or a curse, depending on how you look at it. The Necromancer will not be able to use his Gift against you now. Only two things can stop that sick fuck: death and life. Think about it.” And with that Mama Laurette suddenly collapsed, John to shocked and slow to catch her as the light in the room instantly increased tenfold.

"No, he couldn't be..." John muttered bizarrely incapable of dealing with the Mambo just coming back to consciousness at his feet, with Anna who was cradling the other woman gently, or with the three other men who were doing things on the periphery of John's vision. The Loa had touched him. John knew he needed to leave. John knew he needed to leave now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> Kudos, comments, reviews, requests and hugs are always welcome! <3


	18. Where Are We Now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the David Bowie song.
> 
> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

John spent a lot of time running since he met Sherlock. More than in his rugby days, and possibly more than in the rest of his life leading up to that moment combined.

John was running now because there had been no cab on the street and waiting wasn't an option. The loa of death had touched him and he could feel the echo of it pulsing against his skin. He needed to find Sherlock and he needed to find him now because something was dreadfully, dreadfully wrong, and the drums of death didn't like to pause for mere mortals. That much was very clear.

The east wind was coming to set the scales back on balance and it didn't give one damn who fell off in the process. John could have sworn that Baron Samedi was trying to tell him that Sherlock's life was very soon to its end. He would find the Necromancer and then...

John rushed into Baker Street, panting, and sprinted up the stairs to the flat. He yanked open the door, calling for his friend in a higher octave than his normal voice. This was the one he reserved for panic.

No answer. But there was a lamp left on at the cluttered desk which neither of them used often. The cypher and a sheet of computer paper with a few hastily scrawled attempts and the one correct translation was resting next to it. What had been so important that Sherlock couldn't wait for John? What kind of danger was that moron rushing into?

…

The cipher was magnificent. Incredibly easy to solve- Sherlock got it on his third try, barely a half an hour's work- but that was, of course the point. She didn't want Sherlock to have a hard time solving the cipher, she only wanted to make it complex enough to slow anyone else down, to make sure that it was Sherlock's eyes which saw her message first. Sherlock's eyes only. It was a simple Vigenere cypher whose pass-phrase was literally right in front of everyone's noses: honeycomb. The sketch of the honeycomb crawling over the empty space on the page wasn't mere decoration- it wouldn't make sense for someone so rushed to take the time to decorate the page like that. Once the pass-phrase had been worked it it was the effort of a few moments to decrypt the message.

The beauty of it and the problem of it was this: it wasn't a challenge or a taunt or anything of that sort. It was quite literally a message in a bottle- an SOS.

“Mr. Holmes,  
We met once before, in Brazil. I need help. The Necromancer you're chasing is after me. I'm his real target. There is no time to explain. Please meet me by the duck pond at Regents park, seven pm, friday. Be careful, he will kill you if he suspects you're helping me.  
Sincerely,  
Vanessa (code name Adele)”

Young girl, he suspected immediately. No one over the age of fourteen was likely to think that a code name would be important at this junction. A young girl who'd seen a lot of those ridiculous bond films that John loved.

His time in Brazil was blurred by several attempts at deletion. Relapsing had actually been the least of his problems in South America. No attempting to recall having run into some juvenile girl during those darks would not be worth the consequences of recalling everything else, even with the threat of this Necromancer looming over them all. This case had dragged on too long already, and the more time Sherlock allowed to pass before he solved it, the more likely there would be another incident such as with poor Molly.

A sudden thought struck Sherlock and he jolted out of his chair. Today was friday. It was 6:35 pm. He grabbed his jacket and jammed his shoes on, fleeing from Baker Street like a man possessed.

…

“Idiot,” John muttered, looking at the message. “It's a trap.” The ex-army doctor sprinted up the stairs and grabbed his gun and jam it in the back of his jeans, pausing only long enough to make sure it was properly covered by his knitted jumper before he dashed off after his half-mad flatmate.

Finding the duck pond at Regents park was easy enough. His occasional attempts to air Sherlock out of his fugues had brought them on walks near the duck pond on several occasions. The problem was that aside from a woman with a stroller and a corgi bouncing along on a leash the duck pond area was inhabited only by ducks. John bend over, leaning on his knees and panting as he scanned the area.

There was nothing. Not a single sign of struggle or trap, or any hint of Sherlock having been there. It was peaceful, innocent and totally alarming because if Sherlock wasn't here, where the fuck was he? And more to the point, was he there of his own free will? To be honest, it was the taser in the back that really alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone.

He felt the cuffs snap on, the rough synthetic material of the SRS suits. Special Removal Squad, John could tell by the black steel toed boots, the black figures with not one sliver of skin showing. One bound John's feet together while another pressed an unrelenting knee in his back. John tried to find his tongue, to scream and protest and demand to know why he was under arrest.

They hauled him up by the metal link between the cuffs, his shoulder screaming in protest. He wobbled, unable to find his footing with the binding around his ankles. They sprayed something in his face, an unmarked pocket sized aerosol canister that made his head spin and his eyes and tongue feel like lead. Another SRS agent grabbed his feet and together they jogged him out to the street and swung him in the cavernous back of the black van like a sack of potatoes. It was only as the van was peeling away that John realised they had never read him his rights. More of the gas they had sprayed in his face crept up from the floor of the van and John's head thunked dully against the floor, unable to fight it.

...

“Hmm, well isn't that interesting,” Mycroft drawled happily as John blinked himself awake. Mycroft was sitting in a chair a few feet from John, one leg crossed over the other, his umbrella leaning against his knee, and a manilla file spread open on his lap. John struggled to sit up in vain. It took him several long seconds to realise he was strapped to a metal table, a five point restraint that had been designed to leave the patient very little mobility.

Even with the heavy sedatives he must be under, John's heart began picking up speed. As a Healer, a doctor, a soldier, he'd never been exactly shy about naked bodies, including his own. But there was something visceral about being bound, naked, before an enemy that made John struggle in futility to sit up, to kick out, to cover himself somehow.

“Please calm yourself John, you must see at this point that there's nothing to be done about your situation. Not from your end at least.” Mycroft closed the file, stood and walked over to John. He surveyed the Healer from head to toe the same way Sherlock often surveyed molding human hands and glass slides of anthrax. John focused very hard on the memory of Sherlock telling him that Mycroft had a secret wife who worked for the CIA and collected beanie babies. On the time Sherlock told him that Mycroft was surprisingly weak stomached in the field. He hated to dirty his hands even more than Moriarty had.

“You left the note,” John accused, hoping to distract Mycroft somehow.

“Good heavens no. I have no desire to impede this investigation. Quite the opposite. I've decided this little game with the Necromancer must end. That's precisely why I've been having you both followed for the past two days. I've been ever so careful, alternating man power and CCTV, switching out agents frequently and randomly. Trying tedious work. But this is why Sherlock is running around London with his lead and I have you here on this examination table with three highly qualified Gifted agents standing just outside that door waiting for my word to go to work on you.” John's ringtone for Sherlock chimed from Mycroft's pocket. 

“Pardon me,” Mycroft teased sourly. “Or better yet, pardon my obnoxious brother. He's been quite persistent in attempting to contact you Mr. Watson. How unfortunately that you'll be busy for a few hours more.”

“Whatever you want to know Mycroft, did you ever consider just asking me? And for the last time it's _doctor_ Watson, thanks. Med school wasn't just some weekend whim you know. I did graduate with honors.”

“I don't want to know anything Mr. Watson. This file here is not on you nor upon my ever-so-charming brother. It's the latest Gifted research you see. Modification. So interesting, one might even call it facinating. Apparently, with the proper application of skill and a good deal of force, even a Gifted as strong as yourself can be cracked open like an oyster and seeding with a little pearl of... well let's be judicious and call it programing.

“I was perfectly willing to give you the chance to follow my orders under your own steam but you were just so hostile and it was really quite trite I must say. Even a man of my infinite patience can only be expected to put up with so much. Your refusal of my aide in the flat? Instigating more strife between myself and my brother, to the point where he all but tossed me from your appalling little flat? Charging off half cocked to some grubby little Voodoo shop when you were meant to be watching over Sherlock? How could you ever believe I could allow those offenses to go unanswered?”

“Mycroft, don't,” John said, real panic settling in now. Baron Samedi had only offered protection against being turned into a Raised. There was no way he could fight off three Gifted at once and as soon as they got past his defenses, working as a team, they could twist him in countless different ways. John began hyperventilating, gasping at the thin air and struggling again, looking for weakness in his bonds.

In the Middle East John had made a friend of a fellow soldier named Bill Murray. He was a decent kid and he'd always been kind to John, quick with a dirty joke even at the worst of times. He'd been dating the same boy since he was sixteen, and when he wasn't cracking jokes all he talked about was how he couldn't wait for leave so he could crawl in bed with Dave and watch Kitchen Nightmares reruns int between goes.

It had been a fairly routine patrol when an enemy Mind Walker had laid a hand on Corporal Murray's wrist for just a minute. Suddenly Bill's eyes went blank and a snarl marred that smiling mouth. He turned and began shooting at the rest of his unit, catching John squarely in the middle of his thigh, shattering his femur and laying him low for a day and a half. Bill killed three men and injured two more and a woman soldier before they could wrestle him to the ground.

It was weeks of hospitalization, rehab and therapy before Bill was anything like his old self. He was dishonorably discharged despite the fact in his mind he'd been convinced he was shooting Raised, seeing rotting corpses where moments ago he'd seen friends. On the upside he got to spend a lot more time with Dave.

John didn't think there would be any upside to whatever Mycroft wanted to plant in his head.

“Please Mycroft, please, please, please don't do this. We're on the same side, I swear. I swear we both want the Necromancer stopped. We both want what's best for Sherlock, right?”  
“So sorry,” Mycroft said, tongue darting out to lick his lips as if he found John's begging to be literally delicious. “You've left me no choice. Come in gentlemen!”

Three men stepped through the door, the first being the mousey Healer who was always trailing, vaguely embarrassed, after Mycroft. They waited for Mycroft to step back and sit in his chair. When he gave the Gifted men the nod they surrounded John, each positioning themselves near the chakra that corresponded to their Gift.

A tall dark skinned Siren laid a long fingered hand over John's throat chakra, looking away from John's face. The muscle-bound blond Mind Walker laid a hand over John's Third Eye like a mother soothing her child's brow. The Mycroft's pet Healer had more options- Healers could connect with any and all of the Chakras.

“My name is Mr.Peters,” the Healer said as he touched John's Heart Chakra. “I know there's nothing I can say that will excuse what I'm about to do but I just want you to know that I am morally opposed to this work and I do what I do under protest. My wife's life is at stake. She failed to pay a speeding ticket some time back and the Officer who came to arrest her testified that she attempted to use her Gift to get out of it. An automatic ten year sentence. Mr. Holmes keeps her safe. You know what can happen to Gifted women in prision and I couldn't bare...”

“Get on with it!” Mycroft snapped, losing his patience for the first time in John's recollection.

The Healer, Mr. Peters took a deep breath and began pressing at the edges of John's defenses. “Relax John. The less you fight us the easier this will be for everyone.” The hand on his throat tightened and suddenly there was a pressure on his brow. John was trembling, cold sweat breaking out on his chest, arms, and temples.

John could hear one of the other Gifted sobbing just before John lost all physical control and began screaming. The attack on his Chakras never paused, never weakened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed! Kudos, comments, suggestions, requests and critiques are all welcome. <3


	19. Daughter of Frankenstien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

John's eyes opened but John was gone.

 

He was naked on a table. There were men standing around him. Staring at him. This didn't bother him. Several seconds passed in silence.

“Sit up, John,” the man with the umbrella said. John sat up. “Look at me.” John looked at him.

“I'm your master now. You follow my orders and no one else's. You do everything I say without question. Is that understood?” John nodded. “Stand up,” said the man. John stood. The floor was cold. 

“Kneel at my feet.” John kneeled before the man. He looked all the way up at the man's face in case there were more instructions. “Kiss my shoes,” said the man.

There was a hard glimmer of triumph, of ultimate satisfaction, in Mycroft's eyes. “The perfect tool of war,” he announced to the blanched, sweating faces of his minions. “An entire army of these is impractical, I know, but even just a unit. A special unit of Gifted, totally incapable of disobeying their betters. Fearless. Perfect. A punishment, I think, to be reserved for those who have been a particular thorn in society's side," Mycroft said with a triumphant look at John. "And of course, those who will not willingly conform will be modified. Isn't that right John?” Mycroft asked, with a strange touch of playfulness to his tone, rubbing John's head like he was a golden retriever. 

“Yes sir,” said John. “If you say so sir.” 

“Quite right. Now John, I have a reasonable idea of where this Necromancer has been hiding. Your first mission is to go to this place _alone_ and neutralize the Necromancer however you can. Make no detours, do not hesitate, complete this task as quickly as possible. Harm no civilians unless you absolutely must. You answer to no one's orders but my own. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir,” said John. 

“Mr. Peters,” Mycroft said, turning to his pet Healer, his _other_ pet Healer. “Get John his clothes and weapon. We're going to drop him off for a little play date.” Mr. Peters nodded nervously and hurried to comply. 

...

Sherlock had a thrillingly terrifying feeling that this must all somehow be a trap. He stood panting in the park searching in vain for a face that made sense with the puzzle in his head. Of course it could be a trap, it could always be a trap when powers like this were at play. The evidence was trying to arrange itself into different shapes in his head like an infinite game of three dimensional tetris.

He'd already tried to call John twice on his way here, but there was no answer. He hoped the Voodoo priestess would be done with him soon, he'd never longed his armed blond companion so keenly. Which was absurd, patently absurd. He'd been starving for John's presence the entire time he'd pretended to be dead. He could feel each individual cell in his body, more numerous than the stars freckling the night sky, dehydrating and curling in on themselves with misery for want of John's praise and laughter and faux-stern disapproval. 

So why should he only feel this pulling in his chest now? Like a fishing wire being pulled ever more taught by his struggle not to follow it to shore. He felt inexplicably like there was somewhere more important he was meant to be, that John needed him desperately, but that was illogical. The case lead here, the facts lead here, John was a grown man, a Gifted soldier more than capable of taking care of himself. Sherlock would not not tolerate this sort of nonsensical separation anxiety in himself. But even as he tried to crush the thought of raising his phone to call John one more time, a dark haired girl in a coat several times too big for her stepped out of the shadows.

She looked at him from under the wide brim of her tattered sunhat, face serious, pale and hungry. He wanted to hold out his hand to her, palm up, like an offering made to some half wild rabbit in hopes that it would come closer. But her eyes were keen and cautious and such an approach would be an affront to her obvious intelligence.

So this was the girl he thought he'd been looking for for so long. He understood now where he'd gone wrong. She'd been living on the streets, but only recently. The way she held herself, her level of education, the condition of her skin, all pointed toward a fairly well off upbringing. She was latina, perhaps about fourteen given her height and laughably childish notion of how covert meetings were supposed to take place. 

She held herself like someone expecting physical violence, who was prepared to bolt at the first sign of a raised fist. He could read everyplace she'd been off her clothes, where she stole them from and who likely wore them before that. None of it explained why she looked vaguely familiar, like someone he perhaps they'd met before but it was a niggling feeling like a word on the tip of his tongue... He squinted at her, looking harder.

“Brazil,” she rushed. “I'm from Brazil. We met there. It was a while ago and I think you might have been high, your aura looked like you were high, I'm sorry I didn't mean to read it but I couldn't help it and I was so scared,” she paused and took a long breath, looking terrified and confused as to why she suddenly couldn't shut up.

“We need to get out of the open. We should be having this conversation somewhere more secure. Come back to my flat. You've barely eaten in days and London isn't exactly warm this time of year.” Her eyes scanned the area, twitching, shifting on her feet.

“What if he's watching it? He found me research on you, I think. After I ran.” She looked vaguely guilty, her eyes darting to the ground rather than staying on Sherlock's face. He quirked an eyebrow.

“You were researching me?” Sherlock drawled. “Irrelevant,” he decided after a moment of embarrassed silence from the girl. “I don't need a fan. Not my style. I came here because you posed a mildly interesting puzzle and implied that you had some information which could lead me to the Necromancer. If you can't do that then you're just wasting my time,” Sherlock sniffed derisively. Of course he intended to see the girl taken care of regardless of her effectiveness in this case, but implying abandonment was definitely the best way to motivate this waif to jump through his hoops quickly so he could resolve this whole gory business promptly and _get back to John_.

Even with the scent of promising new data wafting under his nose the buzzing need to find John, rather than the killer, was inescapable, constant beneath his skin.

“My dad! It's my dad!” The girl rushed, breathing quickly, shallowly, stepping forward and looking at Sherlock desperately. “My father is the Necromancer. He's going to find me and punish me and you're the only one who can stop him! Please, you can't leave me on my own Mr. Holmes, please!” Sherlock took her by the shoulders and shushed her.

“You'll do neither of us any good if you have a panic attack. I'm going to take you to a little bolt-hole of mine, one your father is extremely unlikely to have found. Once we're there, _safe_ , you'll tell me everything, and with any luck we'll have this case closed by dinner.” She nodded, tense in his grip. “Good,” he said, drawing away and turning up his coat collar, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide the fact that they were clenched in tight fists. He felt vaguely sick but there was no way he was ill- John had Healed him too recently, and too thoroughly for that. He wrote the symptoms off as psychosomatic: the tightening of his chest, pain in his heart, this throat, his forehead. They meant nothing.

He turned and walked away without looking back. The girl followed him.

...

The flat was yellowed, mold hiding modestly in corners and behind floorboards. It was a studio apartment, but there was no escaping how small it was. It was on the sixth floor of a building which didn't seem so bad from the outside, considering the low rent neighborhood it was a part of. There was no elevator, only one stairwell. They walked by one junkie, two dirty needs, and some vigorous moaning coming through the thin walls before they got to Sherlock's hideaway.

“This place is safe?” Vanessa asked dubiously, clutching her pilfered trench coat tightly around herself.

“Mostly. Do you have any other living relatives?” Sherlock asked absently as he unlocked the door to the flat.

“No. My mother died when I was young. He forbid her from talking to her family back in Venezuela so I never knew them. He killed my grandmother, his mother, when I tried to hide with her.” the girl said as she followed Sherlock into the flat. There was a sagging little sofa, coffee table, a kitchen table and chairs, and little else. Sherlock gestured to the sofa and sat himself on the coffee table, steeping his fingertips and pressing them to his lips as he looked at Vanessa intently.

“You thought that his familial affection would be enough to keep him from killing his own mother? No, foolish- you knew the man. What power could she have had over him that made you think she could keep you safe when he came looking?”

“He told me once that she was the only Necromancer stronger than him. It's rare for power to fade with age. I had hoped...” Vanessa trailed off, rocking herself back and forward gently as she looked away from Sherlock.

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock dismissed with an irritated wave of his hand. “It's nothing we can use now.” Sherlock made an irritated yell in the back of his throat, ruffling his hair in violent frustration and standing to pace about the empty but oddly cramped room.

“Go back to the beginning!” he directed her, turning on her suddenly with more than a hint of madness in his eyes.

“I was home alone you broke in I found you in my dad's office you wanted me to get you into the building where Moriarty's men were but they wouldn't open the door to a stranger so I told them I had a message from my dad and they let me in and then I let you in and then they were all dead or in jail and then I looked you up,” She paused, panting for breath, her chest heaving like a wild bird cornered after a long fight. “Then,” she gasped, “I ran away,” she gasped.

“And he killed everyone who helped you,” Sherlock filled in for her, holding his hands up as the case came together in his head. “At first it was practical, interrogating them for information killing them so they couldn't provide you with future aide. Leah Knowles, whose routine would have brought her past the youth shelter where you stayed. She was the first victim, i.e. the first to help you. She found you and brought you to the shelter.

“Stephanie Czbeck, volunteered at the shelter, it was her whom you trusted to help you find your grandmother but she didn't have the resources so she went to Brent Farber, a significantly older volunteer, a banker with connections. He was the first one who wasn't just conveniently dumped. He went out of his way to help you so your father when out of his way to send a message, leaving the body on the steps of the shelter where he volunteered.

“Your mother was an experiment of sorts, perhaps he wasn't sure himself if he could beat her in a duel of Gifts, perhaps he just wanted to make sure he got your attention, to drive home the point and make you feel as helpless and outmatched as possible. It would have weakened him significantly, hence commanding her to eat the steaks to lessen the pull on his power, and restraining her before he left in case his control started slipping- who knows what could happen to such a powerful Raised Necromancer in such an untested situation? Certainly not your father.

“What I can't figure out is what made the boy so important, the last Raised.” The tight pull in Sherlock's chest had reached it's crescendo, making him clutch his breast and gasp with imagined pain, his eyes watering, his lungs frozen for a split second and then... nothing. The sensation was gone, all the sensations. He was at home in his body again.

“He was my boyfriend,” Vanessa whispered, so quietly Sherlock almost didn't hear. She was crying silently, shaking with fine tremors. “As soon as I saw him I knew he was special. His aura was like Christmas. Even with everything going on I... I needed someone to trust and he was so...he helped me survive, didn't care that I was Gifted. We slept in parks and under bridges, running constantly but he didn't care. He was so kind, he didn't deserve-” She broke down crying, and Sherlock shifted his feet uncomfortably, moving to where she was sat and patting her shoulder awkwardly before crouching down and sliding his arms around her shoulders.

“This will all be over soon. This is a terrible time to cry,” Sherlock said into her hair as she leaned into him.

“I don't know,” the Necromancer said, nudging the door open with his toe, two Raised flanking him from behind. “Seems like a pretty good time to cry to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos comments reviews and suggestions are all welcome!


	20. I Know I Won't Be Leaving Here With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: Edited and updated as of 4/8/15, all beta'ing done by LinnetTheMidnightBlogger. Changes have been made so please take notice as they may affect the overall story.

The Necromancer sauntered in to Sherlock's bolt hole, scoffing with gleeful disdain at its ill kept nature. He was white and tall, and strapped with ropey muscle that his coat and jeans hid only from the untrained eye. He was a native Englishman, that much was clear, and judging by the state of the soil on his boots he'd been spending significant amounts of time in or near a cemetery lately. Pretty standard, ghost stories of Necromancers haunting the dead had been circulating among the popular imagination for thousands of years.

Sherlock hadn't thought that the Necromancer would be so stupid to actually frequent a burial ground- the longer the subject has been dead the more difficult they are to Raise- but perhaps that was the genius of it. This man had no equal among all those living with his Gift, and patterns of past behavior wouldn't apply to him.

Sherlock had to think quickly if he wanted to get them both out of there alive. He had to do something unexpected.

“I knew you'd lead me right to her Holmes, but I never imaged it would be a shit-hole quite like this,” the Necromancer teased, stepping forward, the dusty boards creaking beneath his muddy boots. He leaned down slowly to where Sherlock was still crouched beside Vanessa, doing his best to sheild the unnaturally still girl with his body.

The Necromancer touched one finger to the skin underneath Sherlock's jaw, cold radiated from the spot as if the man were made of dry ice. He tipped Sherlock's face up his, breath that smelled like old Thai food, warm and moist, floated across Sherlock's senses making him cringe at the foul _wrong_ creature before him. 

Some very deep instinct was telling him to _MOVE, run now, run, run, run-_ but that would be showing weakness and if there was one thing Sherlock was genetically programmed to hate, it was backing down from a challenge. The detective briefly had time to wonder if this was how John felt when he came to close to the creatures this man Raised before the man leaned in even closer, their noses nearly brushing together, and whispered “Naughty, naughty,” right over Sherlock's lips.

The cold spread from his jaw, up into his suddenly aching teeth, down his throat, scorching at it's delicate walls with its frigidity spreading through his whole body and twisting his sense of himself, making him feel outside his own body. It was like being set slightly askew, not entirely ripped from his fleshy form, but not entirely settled in it either. Sherlock tried to get away but it took deliberate, conscious effort to move now. 

He managed only to twitch his index finger, aware suddenly that he was inescapably caught. Even that small motion was a taxing exercise in relearning how to make his physical form cooperate. A surge of motion sickness came over him, not just in stomach heaving but his entire form, as if the only sensation any of his nerves was capable of receiving was this cold, disorienting nausea.

With this one twisting push of power the Necromancer had owned him. Could have killed and Raised him without breaking a sweat. Others had used their Gifts on Sherlock before- Moran and John most recently. With John it had been like basking in his own personal sun made of opiates and praise and affection. With Moran it had been sharper, the harsh edge of need creeping into every cell of him. 

He was drunk and desperate, his hormones a maelstrom of screeching desire as they had never been before, could never naturally be. He was very much inside of his own skin then, aware on some distant level what was happening but too whipped up in a mad frenzy of need, to weak with what was taken, to really realise the extent of it, or really care. The need came from within him and nothing had mattered as much as getting off. It was humiliating and terrifying but it hadn't felt like this.

He hadn't known it was possible to feel like this, dispossessed of one's own body, of one's own mind. It felt like the Necromancer had pushed Sherlock out of his own skin, so that he hovered just next to a body that was no longer his, unable to think or feel past his rising animal panic. It terrified him as no Raised, as no other Gift, had ever done.

With no warning Sherlock was released.

His whole body lurched to the side and when he retched all over the coffee table regrettably little of his vomit found it's way near to the man who had touched him, whose chi had tauntingly pushed at the boundaries of Sherlock's, showing him what he could do, and so easily. While Sherlock was vomiting the very little he had in his stomach the Necromancer reached his hand into Sherlock's pocket and took possession of his phone. Sherlock still couldn't stop him, shaking uncontrollably as he was, uncoordinated and filled with a painful throbbing that pounded at the crown of his head like a bass drum, blacking out his vision with it's force.

“The Moriarty thing I could have let go,” the Necromancer said, sitting on the arm of the couch and putting his arm around his daughter as if nothing had just happened. “Hell, it even opened up some new business opportunities to me. There were gaps to fill. I was happy with that. But then you had to go and inspire my little one of rebel, and that, Holmes, is something that's inexcusable no matter the context.” Sherlock opened his eyes, ignored the dancing spots that taunted him with the aftereffects of the Necromancer's touch. The Necromancer squeezed Vanessa's shoulder. She sat like a statue, unresisting, expressionless. “I mean, it says right there in the bible, 'Children ought to obey their parents'.”

“Children,” Sherlock breathed, reeling back from where he hovered, dizzy and violated over the coffee table, as if struck. He scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth in one viscous motion as he scrambled away from the vaguely amused Necromancer. “That's how you've become so powerful. You've been tearing down children. Violating their Chi. Mutilating it and stealing their Gifts.” Sherlock cast a weary eye at Vanessa but there was no way the process had been preformed on her. She was still Gifted for one, and she still had a soul- will, empathy, desire- for another.

“You think I'd do that to my daughter?” The Necromancer asked, watching Sherlock's eyes.

“Well after what you did to your poor mother...” Sherlock trailed off, hoping to incite something, to buy them time, to distract him from his original plan.

“Well I never would have done that if she hadn't stood in my way,” the Necromancer shrugged with a faint whiff of regret that was just as likely an affectation as a symptom of a real feeling. “She was the strongest Necromancer I've ever met, outside of myself of course. She taught me everything except the one thing I needed to know the most. The one thing that could make me more powerful than her. The gift of children,” he said, kissing the top of Vanessa's head.

“It was a little trick I learned from a Mind Walker friend of Moriarty's. And how lucky that I had a kid of my own who I could send out and reel back in, catching little Gifted fishies to consume. I'm not ashamed of that. It was pragmatic. I know she didn't like it,” said the Necromancer, rubbing Vanessa's arm briskly. “But better them than her, am I right? Of course. Of course I am.

“I know you think you're stalling me, but you're really not. You, me, and all my Raised friends out there,” he gestured to the door, “are going to wait here for John Watson. You see I've done my research too. What burnt arteries and veins remain of Moriarty's old network have had some very interesting things to say about good ol' Doctor Watson. I'll let him come to me. I don't mind waiting. It's not like I can really be stopped anyway. So what do you want to talk about while we wait for me to murder and Raise your best friend in front of you Holmes? The weather? Do you want to hear my evil plan? It's pretty great. 

"It involves selling Vanessa's abilities to the highest bidder, holding her hand and walking her through every assignment until she becomes numb to it. Until she's just like me. How's that sound honey?” Vanessa made no reply. “Well, she always was a shy one,” the Necromancer said apologetically. Sherlock stares at the man, trying to deduce him, to read something off the state of his cuffs and the crease of his brow that he doesn't already know. It's pointless though, the kind of deception he needs to employ to escape this situation has always been his brother's area. Quick bouts of shaming people who were ignorant of his true nature and skills were more Sherlock's pace.

“What do you want?” he finally asked the Necromancer.

“First London, then the world,” the man answered with a broad smile and an expansive hand gesture. “Seriously though, I've given the matter a lot of thought and while ruling the black market in South America is good times, I'd really like to branch out. Dominate and globalize, that's me. Start a nice little family business,” he said, hugging Vanessa to him. “We'll get some of those other chump Gifted working for us, build an empire the likes of which Mr. Moriarty, with all his drama and bullshit, could never dream of. We'll run our business nice and proper. No silly games, no wishy-washy decision making. Just good old fashioned cash for services. And one day, one _sweet_ day, my kind will take control of this world from yours, crushing your peasant asses in the dirt like the down-low scum sucking bitches you are. You didn't hear that word, honey,” he said in an aside to Vanessa who merely nodded, just as blank faced as she'd been since he entered the room.

“I can help you do that,” Sherlock offered, panic making his pitch less convincing than he needed it to be. He could see it by the dangerous narrowing of the Necromancer's eyes, the way his Raised Ones shuffled closer, almost as if on subconscious command. Watching the feat of Gift Command was impressive, terrifying, awe-inducing. He'd do anything to stop John from seeing it. “i have Gifted sympathies,” Sherlock hurried on, trying to sound unrushed. Sweat was breaking out on his upper lip, under his arms, on his palms he could feel it. “My brother-”

“Enough,” snapped the Necromancer. “I wish I could say it's been a fun chat but honestly, you're just so dull. I have no idea what Jim saw in you to be honest. Anyway, Doctor Watson's coming now. He'll have found my last hidey-hole empty by now and he'll be tracking the rather obvious trail of Raised and Chi here. Through their eyes I can see him, you know.” It was then that John stepped through the door, the Raised parting to allow him entrance like living curtains of rotting flesh.

“What a man,” said the necromancer appreciatively but not lasciviously, as if John were a lovely mountain range rather than a sentient being. “What a Gift he has, don't you agree Holmes?” the Necromancer asked, looking between John and Sherlock with an inviting smile like they were two single acquaintances of his he was trying to introduce.

John stood redolent in the corrupted light that broke through the cracked unwashed windows. Golden, powerful, so beautiful, so much more a warrior than Sherlock had ever seen him. The man standing before them had no weaknesses, no soft edges, no split second to spare to assess the condition Sherlock or the girl as a doctor would need to do.

This was how Sherlock knew it wasn't really John who stood before him.

“John?” he asked in a broken child's voice, a terrible dejavous making him almost wretch on the smell of chlorine and semtex.

“I've been sent to end you,” said John who spoke over Sherlock.

“And I've been waiting for this moment. The big showdown. You've been stealing sips of power all around town, don't think I haven't seen it.” He wagged his finger at John like he'd been a naughty boy. “I'd really love to give you one chance to join me before I destroy you but I know what you'd say. Moral quandaries and all that. Loyalty to a country that would rather fuck your dead granny than give you equal rights and all that. You didn't hear that word darling,” he said in an aside to Vanessa who nodded mechanically. “It's a losing system you're stuck in Watson, old boy. Don't defend it. Be part of the revolution. Let your Gift run free. Fuck those Normal scraps of shit that want to keep you down.”

“If you don't surrender I will use force,” John said, completely without intonation. Tears were running down Sherlock's cheeks from where he had huddled, crumpled in the corner of the room. He touched his fingertips to the trails of salty water, looking at the moisture on them as if seeking an explanation for why it was there. This wasn't like him. But John was dead. Whatever had been done to him, it was clear that John's soul was gone. Cut off like a gangrenous limb. He would never get his John back, souls didn't work like that. He was as good as Raised.

“It's so cute that you think you're capable of that, honestly,” said the Necromancer, standing and stretching as if they were about to yoga rather than get into a Gifted death match. The Necromancer held out his hand, an invitation for John to shake. “Let's get right down to business Watson. Ruling the world won't be easy and I'd rather not waste time.”

John looked down at the naked skin that was offered indifferently. He raised his hand to grasp the Necromancer's, Sherlock watching unable to draw breath his mind a static buzz of panic. He'd never felt so lost before, so utterly unable to decide what he should do. It was the creak of the ancient floorboards that made him shift his laser intense focus from the impending disaster before him to the two Raised creeping up behind John.

“John, behind you!” Sherlock shouted, throwing himself ineffectively forward, grasping desperately for John's clothing to drag him away. He got as little response as the Necromancer had, John glanced at him briefly, his hand still floating inches away from the grinning Necromancer's. Just as he moved forward to take it the Raised snatched at him from behind, restraining his arms and dragging him backwards, their crooked yellowed teeth too close to the smooth, delicate skin of John's neck for Sherlock's liking.

“Let him go!” Sherlock yelled at the Necromancer, forcing himself to his feet. He stumbled and steadied himself on the mildewy wall, his balance and his dignity still aching from the Necromancer's assault.

“Sit down before I make you sit down,” snapped the Necromancer. “Or do you need another demonstration of my power? I've heard enough doses of a Necromancer's touch can drive a person to incurable madness. But then I suppose your devoted brother wouldn't want to trade much for a useless piece of shit too looney to even deduce his own name.” The Necromancer smiled, as if this thought were funny.

“I won't let you kill him.”

“You can't stop me,” said the Necromancer smoothly. Sherlock stood tall, staring the man in the eye.

“You want me as a bargaining chip. I can give you better. Information my brother values more than my skills, more than my life. Let John go, let him leave here in the condition he came in, and I'll give you something better than an uncooperative bargaining chip. I'll give you everything you need to know to take down Mycroft Holmes. There will be no one with the power to stop you then.”

“How about I kill your precious little faggot boyfriend, Raise his corpse, and then use his dead body to torture you until you're a sobbing mess, begging to tell me anything I want to know. I want you on your knees, bowing down before the master,” he said with a charming grin, spreading his arms wide.”That's where all you Gift-less pieces of shit belong. Honey, you didn't hear that word,” he said in an aside to Vanessa, who Sherlock had honestly forgotten about in all the drama.

She said nothing as the Necromancer took a step toward John.

John struggled as the Raised pressed him down on the floor, two more shuffling in from the hallway to throw their rotting bodies into the fight and pinning John hand and foot. John went still, breathing heavily through his nose and staring wide eyed at the Necromancer who loomed above him and pulled a knife from his pocket.

“You're afraid of him!” Sherlock said quickly, speaking in double time. “That's why you wouldn't touch him. That's why you want to kill him isn't it? You think John might be more powerful than you. Otherwise you never would have offered him a place in your new endeavor. You're weaker than John Watson.”

It worked. The Necromancer turned on his heel and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

“I see what you're trying to do Holmes. But I've let you stall me long enough. It doesn't matter what you think. You're less than. You're Giftless.”

“You didn't kill any of the others with a knife! Why should John be different? You're a coward!” The Necromancer kneeled down next to John ignoring Sherlock, which was fortuitous because Sherlock chose that moment to lunge desperately at the Necromancer, throwing their bodies into one of the Raised, the knife sliding without effort between Sherlock's ribs as they fell in molasses slow time toward the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Kudos, Comments, reviews, and suggestions are all welcome!


	21. What's In Your Head?

Sherlock woke in a warm syrupy haze. He felt like he was covered in soft honey and sunshine, and the giggling blades of grass beneath him were kissing his skin. 

“Time to wake up sleepyhead!” they called in their crystalline voices. Mycroft and Mummy and Dad were braiding flower crowns as Redbeard bounced around them, barking his enticement to play. He felt fingers through his hair and he knew that John was sitting beside him, admiring him and the soft bouncing curls of which Sherlock was so proud.

“I’ve died,” Sherlock said, delighted. He could not recognize the sound of his own voice, as though he were speaking underwater. 

“No,” came Vanessa’s quiet voice. Sherlock turned his head with great effort and saw her standing there and sighed. 

“You’re a MindWalker,” he said, not bothering to extrapolate what they both knew.

“You are _dying_ , if that makes you feel better,” she said. “I just wanted it to be nicer for you. If you hadn’t helped me before, and if I hadn’t come to you for help now, then none of this would be happening. It’s the least I could do for you.” Sherlock nodded, but by some feat of dream logic this didn’t disrupt John’s fingers in his hair. His family sat laughing together, oblivious to the stranger in their midst.

“Did John kill your father?” Sherlock asked absently.

“Oh yes,” Vanessa said. “It was close for a moment there but the Necromancer is dead.” Sherlock plucked a blade of the happy grass and ripped it into tiny happy confetti.

“I suppose at least there’s that,” he said eventually. Molly and Lestrade were on the other side of a bubbling azure stream, flirting over a grotesquely fascinating corpse. Clearly murder, but how? Sherlock could be so very happy here. Even the corpse wasn’t upset about being murdered. This was a place where everything was okay.

“I really should wake up if I can,” Sherlock said to Vanessa, who seemed to be idly making violets grow by force of will. “I’d really like to-”

The snap back to reality was so abrupt and disorienting for a moment Sherlock thought he’d somehow done it himself. But no, there was Vanessa, tossed across the room like a rag doll. There was John, scrambling closer to Sherlock with that utterly blank non-expression on his face. 

“J-Jo-” Having a collapsed lung, Sherlock noted, made it incredibly difficult to speak. He could taste the flecks of blood on his tongue. Transport was so fragile. 

There were John’s hands, ripping out the knife, pressing over the wound, winding in sherlock’s hair just like in his dream.

He could feel John’s will buzzing along his skin, sinking in through the tissue and the muscle and the bone, pulling him together with the effort of hauling a great weight, slow enough to be felt like a shivery-pleasant itching tug. Despite how languorous it felt the entire process only took a moment.

Only when he was again alone in his body did Sherlock have the nerve to look up at his closest friend and ask, “Why did you do that?”

“I couldn’t let her change you,” John said tonelessly. “I had to make sure you were the same.” Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows.

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t mind if the Necromancer killed me, as long as no one used their Gifts to alter my mind?” he asked incredulously. John nodded. 

“My mission is complete now, I need to report back to base.” Sherlock reached out and grabbed John’s hand before he could move.

“First can you walk me home? I still feel a little odd. From the MindWalking. Surely a little trip wouldn’t make much difference?” The detective batted his eyelashes as he had done as a child begging for sweets, rubbing his thumb along his friend’s hand just a little. 

“I can do that,” John finally said, haltingly. 

“Good John,” Sherlock panted, suddenly and acutely aware of how close he had come to death, to never drawing a full breath again. “Good, that’s good,” Sherlock chanted, keeping his hand on John’s hand hoping that the skin to skin connection might be helping somehow.

Vanessa groaned from across the room and John stiffened under Sherlock’s touch. 

“Vanessa?” Sherlock called, smoothing gentling circles along John’s arm. 

“I’m okay,” Vanessa croaked, sitting up and clutching at her head. John shifted anxiously and Sherlock leveraged himself against his friend’s shoulders to serve the dual purpose of keeping John in place and helping himself to stand.

“Let’s all go home,” Sherlock said briskly moving to offer his hand to Vanessa. John shot to his feet, reaching out to break the connection between the MindWalker and Sherlock before it was even formed. 

“No,” John said simply, but with all the weight and command of a man who have given orders in a war zone for several years. Vanessa flinched away, curling into a ball on the floor before them. 

“Okay,” Sherlock said, holding up his hands palm out so everyone could see that he intended to touch no one. “John, why don’t you lead the way downstairs while Vanessa and I follow a few feet apart?”

“She won’t touch you,” John stated. It was not a question. He looked to the girl who was just peeking out from the ball she’d made of her limbs.

“I promise I won’t use my Gift on Sherlock again,” Vanessa said, her voice admirably smooth. “I was just trying to help.”

“No more helping,” John stipulated, turning around and stepping over the fast-rotting corpse of a Zonbi on the floor to lead them both toward the door. Vanessa and Sherlock exchanged a look. She had been inside his head, she had glimpsed the way his mind worked and had a fairly good idea what he was planning next.

…

“This isn’t Baker Street,” John said, his voice just as toneless and unaffected as it had been since he’d been disappeared and altered. 

“No,” Sherlock agreed, pushing open the door to the shop and listening to the little bell tinkle, “it isn’t.” John and Vanessa followed him in, each unquestioning in their own way. There at the small table by the counter sat Mama Laurette and the waitress from Speedy’s sipping their tea as if they’d been waiting on this exact pack of weirdoes to wander in through the door. 

“This will take all three of us,” Mama Laurette said to Vanessa, who was already walking around the boys to stand next to the priestess. 

“I figured,” Vanessa said, taking Mama Laurette’s cup when it was offered to her and breathing in deeply of the fragrant steam. The girl took a sip of the warm drink and hummed her approval. 

“Sit down John,” Mama Laurette said. John looked to Sherlock. There was no question in his eyes but he didn’t move until Sherlock pushed him into the chair.Vanessa sat on one side of John and the waitress sat on the other with Mama Laurette between the two. The three women joined hands and when Sherlock lifted John’s arms up to join them in a circle he found that the good doctor offered no resistance. 

The Healer, the MindWalker, and the Siren set to work combining their powers to cure the broken man in their hands.

Sherlock did not stay to watch.

…

Mycroft thought he was alone in his dim office until he heard the soft click in the corner.

“John’s gun Sherlock? Really? I know you’re going for poetic but that doesn’t mean you have to be obvious,” Mycroft called out without looking up from the neatly stacked paperwork before him.

“Tell me why you did it Mycroft.” Only a brother who had been raised beside him could hear the depth of emotion in that cold voice. Only a Holmes could tell that Sherlock’s hand was shaking, just slightly.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, setting down his pen and looking away from the forms at last. “You know why I did it.”

“Oh please,” Sherlock retorted harshly. “Don’t try to feed me the same pretty little story you want to serve up to the rest of the cattle out there.Tell me why.” Mycroft took a deep breath. He had been preparing to have this conversation since he first began to set his plans in motion so many years ago. It was hard to maintain a sympathetic figure in the public when his true goals were more radical than his country was prepared to accept. 

“You’ve never spared a thought for them, those so called ‘cattle’. Do you have any idea what those creatures, those _parasites_ do to their children? They destroy them Sherlock, they gobble them up on the inside and leave hollow reedy shells walking around in their place like little marionette children. 

“Every devil born manipulator out there who isn’t suppressed has the ability to eat normal children’s souls, to steal their joy, to corrupt their innocence. Do you want Zonbi’s crawling around the streets, maiming innocent people like Ms. Hooper? Do you want more Morans out there raping to death anyone they can lay hands on and making their victims beg for it? Think it over Sherlock, do you want to let those things walk around unchecked? You’ve always been a callous, foolish, impulsive boy Sherlock but you have never been that stupid. 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone Sherlock. I’m only trying to do what is necessary and just. Good people like Molly and John will be spared any unpleasantness. As a matter of fact I plan on making this country much safer for them, the same way Yellowstone is much safer for tagged wolves. We needn’t tolerate any more unfortunate ‘accidents’, nor any more reports of black uniforms in black vans disappearing people who gentle themselves obediently under the guiding hand of the law.

“It will all be so clean and simple once the legislation has gone through. The good ones will be spared, safer and rewarded for their compliance. Isn’t that what you want my dear brother? For your beloved pet to not have to hide? I have the paperwork all prepared, you know. He can be under your care the very instant the legislation passes, safe from harm, forever beside you and recognised for his contributions. Isn’t that what you want?” Mycroft smiled gently at his brother, holding the paperwork out for his examination. Sherlock did not step closer.

“What about the bad ones Myc?” Sherlock asked quiet horror freezing his muscles in place. “What happens to the bad ones?”

“Only what’s necessary for the good of the herd,” Mycroft replied smoothly, insisting that his brother take the paperwork. 

“Weren’t you just telling me not to call them cattle?” Sherlock asked, his hands now trembling hard enough that even an officer from the met couldn’t fail to take notice.

“Well some allowance must be made for normal people. They may be slow and stupid and blind but at least _they_ are clean. Those other things can learn to be with a carrot and a stick.” Mycroft looked so smug as he said it, so calm and self assured that it made Sherlock physically sick.

“But you’re one of them,” he said helplessly, feeling all of five years old again. “You’re Gifted, you always have been. The Suppression-”

“Don’t speak about things you don’t understand!” Mycroft sneered viciously. “It’s not Suppression, I’m cured!”

“Mycroft you can’t _be cured_ ,” Sherlock told him quietly. “It’s not a disease or a disorder; it’s a fact of genetics.”

“You’re wrong,” Mycroft assured him stubbornly, stalking from behind his desk to face his brother. “It’s an imbalance in the energy system. The one good thing that Joseph did before his death was restoring order to the chaos that had become of my Chi.” Sherlock looked into the elder Holmes’s eyes, shocked to see that his brother wholeheartedly believed in the utter rubbish he was spewing. 

“Joseph never did a single good thing in his life. He wanted to turn you into his twisted sacrifice, the same way Vanessa’s father used up those other children and threw them away, the same way you claim to be afraid the Gifted will do to normal children!” Sherlock screamed, dropping the gun to shake his brother’s suited shoulders. 

“Joseph was a flawed man but he loved me and he wanted to save me the only way he knew how. And now I’m going to save all the rest of them, I’m going to save them from themselves Sherlock, with you or without you,” there was a glimmer, just a faint glimmer, of a tear somewhere behind the depths of Mycroft’s eyes. 

“He was using you,” Sherlock insisted unblinkingly. “The only thing Joseph loved was power and he didn’t care what lives he had to destroy to get it. He would have drained you completely, he would have made you no better than a Zonbi if Mummy hadn’t found him out and stopped him. She was paying him to teach you how to use your Gifts responsibly, but he decided he wanted them for himself and to hell with anyone who loved you!” Sherlock’s fists were clenched madly in the Bespoke now, his teeth bared and his nostrils flared as he yelled in Mycroft’s face.

“Oh Sherlock,” Mycroft said, laying his hands over his little brother’s. “Don’t you see? When Joseph siphoned that Chi from me he made me normal. The powers went away. The visions went away. It’s all gone now. I’m not Gifted anymore.”

“No, of course not. How could I have been so blind?” Sherlock breathed, his eyes wide with the sudden realization. “Do you think this is the answer?” Sherlock asked, snapping his attention back to Mycroft’s face. “Do you think this is how we can help the other Gifted?”

“I don’t know yet dear boy,” Mycroft said, pleased that his brother had finally woken up and seen sense. “There’s so much research that needs to be done and this legislation will finally give me the means to do so on the books. We wouldn't want all that Chi going into the wrong hands now would we?”

“Not at all, of course not,” Sherlock immediately agreed. Mycroft took a deep relieved breath.

“Go home to John Sherlock but don’t tell him or any of your other Gifted friends about our plans yet. They wouldn’t understand like we do, they’re so small minded we must drag them kicking and screaming into the light. After the press conference tomorrow morning it will be too late for them to stop us from helping them help themselves.” Sherlock nodded, grinning at his brother in that aloof Holmes way.

“They’ll never be able to stop us now that we’re working together Myc. I’ll go home to John and keep him distracted. I’ll give them all some rubbish about how I’ve sorted you out. They’ll believe anything I tell them. 

“Perfect,” Mycroft drawled, stepping back and straightening out his hopelessly wrinkled Bespoke as his brother’s hands fell away.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, looking a bit dazed as he scooped up John’s gun and wondered off. Poor thing had had to adjust to a lot of new ideas in that conversation but Mycroft wasn’t worried. Whatever his flaws, Sherlock had always come along quicker than ordinary people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long fuckin' while since I updated. Life happened. I know you guys understand. This story will be drawing to a close very soon. My ultimate gratitude and love to everyone who's stuck it out thus far.   
> If there's anything you'd like to see me write in the future let me know in the comments or leave me an ask at heartofthemirror.tumblr.com, no promises.


	22. This is the End my Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta'ed and was written late at night so please forgive any errors.

John was curled on Sherlock’s bed when he got back to Baker Street, like a dog who missed his absent master. Sherlock ran one long fingered hand over his friend’s blond brow, sweeping his sweat-matted hair to one side. He had missed John, so much. Could it only have been a few hours that they were apart? Could it only have been a day since last they had touched each other without anyone muddling either of their heads?

Sherlock toed off his shoes and lined them up in his closet. Hug up his suit jacket, unbuttoned and slipped out of his gray cotton-silk shirt and folded it before he put it in the laundry hamper. He wasn’t always so meticulous with his things, in fact he would call this little ritual a rarity. Something that helped him feel grounded and secure when life had veered wildly out of his control.

Sleeping in the nude was Sherlock’s habit, but contrary to what some people thought he did have a sense of boundaries. He contained himself to his black boxer briefs.

If John wasn’t out like a light, utterly and incomprehensibly drained Sherlock never would have been able to work the covers out from under him and cover them both without waking him.

Sherlock curled his arm around John’s sleeping form hesitantly. It was strange to have someone else in his bed, but once upon a time he had slept in this exact formation with Redbeard, so it couldn’t possibly be much different. To sleep with a friend, that was. Sherlock would never use the word cuddle. He was fairly certain he had never cuddled a living creature in his life, and certainly not on purpose. So that wasn’t what he and his unconscious John were doing. Cuddling. It was just warm and safe and nice to not be alone. To know that the door was locked and the Necromancer was dead, and Mycroft would take care of the whole Gifted situation so Sherlock didn’t have to worry, and to deduce that Vanessa was staying with that waitress from Speedy’s. 

It was nice to have a warm body in his bed with him. He’d have to trick John into doing this again somehow. It was with this thought that Sherlock drifted off into the quiet black certitude of sleep.

…

It was a beautiful morning for a press conference if there was such a thing. For once there were no clouds in the grey English sky.

Molly looked lovely, elegant and understated in the clothes her stylist had picked out for her. A pink and peach color palate which made her look innocent and youthful- the furthest thing from a crazed Necromancer as it was possible to be.

Lestrade was doing his part well in a blue suit Mycroft had chosen himself. Ladies apparel might not have been Mycroft’s wheelhouse but suits, well that was another story entirely. He’d chosen something solid, sturdy but modern. A navy blue which spoke of authority and law, paired with a lighter shirt which had been pressed crispy. The tie Mycroft had chosen was a bold blue more saturated and lighter than that of Lestrade’s suit. It had a subtle texture that spoke of taste without distracting from Lestrade’s handsome face.

All in all they looked quite the couple standing there on the podium together and Mycroft could safely say, from his place at the back of the crowd, that he was proud of the work he had done to make them so. 

The reporters were gathering, handshaking, bullshitting. Molly and Lestrade were standing off to the side, whispering quietly in each other’s ears. The write gauze wrapped around Molly’s arm and the plumy bruises on her skin were standing out nicely. Perfect. The audience wouldn’t see her as a Necromancer, they’d see her for what she truly was- a victim of evil. An evil Mycroft could stop.

…

John woke up feeling warm and wonderful. Coming back to himself had been a slow strange process yesterday. It had been like trying to fit into clothes he’d worn in high school. Nothing quite fit right. There was no simple way to pour back inside of himself but the meal Mama Laurette had made him helped afterwards. So had the sleep.

He knew he should have made the hike upstairs to his own bed but frankly even if he’d had the energy he hadn’t had the desire. After Sherlock had disappeared there had been a part of John that wasn’t sure whether or not he would ever see his friend again. It wasn’t the John was afraid Sherlock had died or anything, but the Holmes had enough resources to live wherever he liked. He was emotionally immature enough to abandon John without a word, callous enough to send someone else for his things. As for why John feared that Sherlock might want to abandon him, well that was easy. 

There was only so much even the closest of friends and family could handle. Unnatural bending of Chi was still an automatic death sentence in England. Victims of crimes like that weren’t officially punished but society had a way of pushing those people to the fringes, never looking them in the eye. Survivors were only ever considered half human outside of the Gifted community, like mannequins that had somehow learned to walk on their own. John wouldn’t even fault Sherlock for not wanting to live in the face of all that. Not after John had nearly let him die.

Waking up wrapped in Sherlock’s arms did a lot to waylay that train of thought. 

All that physical contact though, all that skin pressing against skin, wasn’t something an unconscious Healer could really help but indulge in. Which is how he knew, long before he came back to consciousness, that there was something deeply wrong in Sherlock’s Chi. It wasn’t obvious, the way some Chi manipulation could be (the way what had been done to John was), but John could feel it like a pebble buried deep in the shifting sands of Sherlock’s mind.

A siren had touched his best friend. No way in hell was John letting that stand, not after what he’d been through, not with the way he felt about Sherlock. As soon as he was rested up enough to be able, before he even opened his eyes for the morning, John pushed forward into the beautiful landscape of his friend’s Chi. He could feel the manipulation, though just barely. It was so subtle, so natural seeming, that John wasn’t even sure he’d be able to detect it if Sherlock were a stranger.

Unraveling the manipulate was incredibly tricky. John had very little experience with Sirens besides recently, and even then he was only on the receiving end. Sirens Gifts were, to John’s mind, even more insidious than Necromancers’. Necromancers’ work was unmistakable. Sirens had been known to manipulate people so skillfully they lived their entire lives without even realizing what had been done to them. That scared John a hell of a lot more than the thought of being bitten, or having his corpse used as a puppet. Better his absent body than his present mind.

He sighed as he finally felt the manipulation falling away and disintegrating.

“John?” Sherlock said, shifting sleepily.

“Good morning,” John said, his voice rough.

“I had the worst dream,” Sherlock said, snuggling into John’s throat as John petted his hair.

“Was it about Mycroft?” John asked carefully.

“Yes, how did you…” Sherlock blinked, snapping upright out of John’s arms. “Fucking bastard,” Sherlock said wonderingly. “He swore he’d never use it on me. When we were children he called it cheating, said that he was so much smarter than me anyway that he would never need to mess about with my Chi to get me to do what he wanted.”  
“Are you telling me Mycroft is Gifted?” John asked incredulously.

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “He’s been in Gift Suppression since we were children, I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t. What did he make you do?” John asked, baring his teeth unconsciously and clenching his hands in the sheets.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said.

“Don’t lie to me Sherlock, I’m the one who undid his handiwork, I know he manipulated you.”

“Yes, of course he did. I just said as much, didn’t I? I just don’t think Mycroft _knows_ he did. He kept going on about how he was ‘cured’. He doesn’t believe he’s Gifted anymore,” Sherlock said, pulling on a fresh pair of trousers. John hauled himself out of bed and did the same.

“Are we going to confront him now?” John asked. “We might want to call Lestrade and Mama Laurette. Going up against that man without backup is about the dumbest thing we could do right now,” John said pointedly. 

“Don’t bother with that John,” Sherlock said. “We’ll have the most ruthless assistance anyone could want. We’ll have the press.” Sherlock swanned out of the room, still buttoning his shirt. John rolled his eyes, certain that Sherlock had only chosen that moment to leave based on the dramatic appeal of that exit line.

…

“So,” Lestrade concluded. “Without further ado I’d like to introduce Molly Hooper.” He stepped away from the podium, gesturing for Molly to take his place.

“Hi,” Molly said, tilting her chin down in a way that made a few of the reporters, especially the older male reporters, smile. “Um, I’m Molly Hooper, like he said. Until the incident that happened during the Necromancer case I worked at St.Bartholomew's as a pathologist. I was called in by the Met to help them clean up the mess the Necromance left behind. They asked for me specifically because until the incident I,” Molly drew a deep breath. 

She had never publicly admitted this much, never posted anything about it on Facebook. Before this moment Molly had only ever disclosed her Gifted status in one on one situations. This was what she had to do though, to make the future a brighter place.

“Thank you Molly,” Sherlock drawled as he blew in through the doors, striding toward the podium with his coat billowing behind him. “That will be all,” he dismissed her, hopping up onto the platform and ignoring the stairs entirely. Molly backed away, casting a confused glance at Mycroft who was suddenly stone faced in the crowd

“You all know who I am so I’ll make this brief,” Sherlock said. “The man beside me is Dr. John Watson, a veteran of Afghanistan and an extremely gifted Healer. This is the man who killed the Necromancer who has been terrorizing London. Together with Dr. Watson, DI Lestrade, and Dr. Hooper, I would like to thank the Gifted community of London for their invaluable assistance with this case. 

“A high ranking member of the British government has asked me to assure everyone that no legislative or executive revenge is going to be leveled at the Gifted community due to the actions of one deranged man. We ask that the people of Britain refrain from acting out against the Gifted neighbors and loved ones who are innocent of these crimes and to report to the appropriate authorities anyone who does target Gifted people.” Sherlock hopped down off the stage and strode out of the conference room amid a flurry of questions from ravenous reporters. John grabbed Molly and Lestrade meanwhile and steered them toward the back exit.

Mycroft was waiting for his brother outside.

“I thought we were on the same page, brother dear,” Mycroft sneered. Only Sherlock could ever see the tiny spark of betrayal in the older Holmes’s eyes.

“You used your Gift on me,” Sherlock told him coolly. “The same way you coerced your cronies into using their Gifts on John and manipulated Molly and Lestrade. I can not allow you to go on doing this,” Sherlock said.

“Preposterous, I’m not Gifted. You simply got cold feet once you ran back home to your pet Healer. Tell me, how exactly do you plan to stop me. Do you honestly believe hijacking that press conference has changed anything? You’ve merely delayed the inevitable,” Mycroft told his brother.

“No,” Sherlock corrected him. “What I’ve done is call Mummy. She’s on a plane as we speak, flying in to take pick you up and take you back with her to the country where you can convalesce under her supervision.” Mycroft took a step back.

“You didn’t. You wouldn’t,” he said, casting his eyes involuntarily toward the nondescript black sedan that was waiting for him by the curb. 

“You can run if you like but that would merely delay this inevitable,” Sherlock smirked, quoting his brother. “Mummy will find you wherever you go. The woman can be admirably ruthless when it comes to the wellbeing of her children. What time is it?” Sherlock asked abruptly, looking at his phone.

“11am,” he answered his own question. “By now Uncle Terrance should almost be to the country home. You do know how he hates using his MindWalking on family, but desperate times…” 

“I won’t let them do it,” Mycroft said, paling. “I’d rather die first. They want to make me disgusting, they want to bring the Gift back but I refuse to sit idly by and let them!”  
“I had considered you would feel that way about the months of intense therapy you’re about to be subjected to,” Sherlock said calmly, his hands in his pockets. “Chi therapy, psychological, possibly even physical. It is quite a lot all at once and I doubt very much if it will be pleasant.”

“Physical therapy?” Mycroft asked as John, having run around the building and snuck up behind the elder brother, placed his hands around Mycroft’s neck and _pulled_ with all the force of his considerable Gift. Sherlock winced sympathetically as he watched his brother go down like a paper sculpture in the rain, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream as John temporarily disabled him, trapping that great mind inside of a body which would no longer respond to its commands. If he made the process a little more painful than it necessarily had to be, well, no one who currently had the power of speech knew about it.

Sherlock kneeled down next to his brother. “What you did to me I could forgive. What you wanted to do to the Gifted people of Britain I could understand. But what you did to John crossed a line that can never be uncrossed Mycroft. When you come back from the country you won’t be the same man. This twisted version of you is going to die out there under Uncle Terrance’s hands. 

"Well, Uncle Terrance and a well renowned Swedish Healer and a Siren from America who has had wonderful results counseling hardened criminals. I’ve made enough phone calls on the way here to be sure that you won’t be able to walk out of doors alone until every vestige of your twisted mind had been scrubbed clean.. Whomever comes back in his place will have a lot of apologies to make if he ever wants to be welcome at Baker street again.” Sherlock stood and nodded to his Healer who grabbed Mycroft and dragged him toward the black SUV.

“I take it by the tears on your collar that you’ve Healed Molly of my brother’s influence,” Sherlock said John hoisted the limp Siren into the spacious carpeted trunk with a grunt.

“I did. The tears are Lestrade’s though.” Sherlock hummed consideringly in response. “Have you heard back from Anna yet?” John asked as they slid into the car and turned the engine. 

“She agreed to take Vanessa in,” Sherlock said, distracted by the sights of London passing through the window.

“All’s well that ends well I suppose,” John said. “Although to be honest I really wish you would have let me kill your brother.”

“You and I both know that the fate I chose for him is far worse than any death you or I could bestow,” Sherlock said. John remained quiet behind the wheel because there was nothing he could say. If he had been in Mycroft’s position he would have prefered death to letting others, even trained professionals with the best intentions, rearrange his head, his Chakras. He slid his hand across the center console and twined his fingers with Sherlock’s.

There was so much still that needed to be done, conversations that needed to be had, an entire world that needed to be changed for the better. But for today at least, John felt that they had done enough and the second Mycroft was loaded onto the plane with Mummy Holmes John intended to take Sherlock back home, herd him into bed and give them both a chance to catch up on the miles of sleep they had been missing those past few days. He and Sherlock were together and they were both okay. John took a deep breath and felt, for once, that maybe everything could be okay in the end after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and enjoyed this fic. It's been a long road y'all, but this is the end of it. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always and forever welcome :)


End file.
